Lilies filled the air inside St. Mark’s Funeral Home, their heavy sweetness turning my stomach. My eight-month-pregnant daughter lay in a polished mahogany coffin, her belly still rounded beneath the satin. She should have been decorating a nursery, not lying still under soft lights. My hands clenched until my wedding ring bit into my skin. None of this felt real. It felt like a mistake the world hadn’t corrected yet.
Then I saw him. Jason stood near the casket like a host greeting guests, not a grieving husband. Worse, he had his arm around a blonde woman in a tight black dress. She dabbed dry eyes while he smiled down at her. Rage replaced the numbness. I stepped close and demanded who she was. He introduced her casually, then leaned into my ear and whispered, “After today, I’m free.”
