My husband died in another woman’s apartment, and when his family demanded that I pay for his funeral, I discovered they had been hiding his affair from me for years.

I didn't sleep. I sat on our gray sectional sofa in the dark, watching headlights sweep across the ceiling of the home Aaron and I had purchased five years ago. His running shoes were still sitting by the front door. His coffee mug was in the sink.

By 7:30 AM, my phone buzzed on the coffee table.

It was Denise.

I pressed the speaker button, my voice raspy and hollow. “Hello?”

“Claire,” Denise began, completely bypassing any condolences or inquiries about my well-being. Her voice was sharp, efficient, and dripping with authority. “I just finished speaking with Serenity Pines Memorial Gardens. We’ve selected the premier family plot in the north garden, along with a full mahogany casket and a catered reception for two hundred guests.”

I rubbed my temple, trying to make sense of the words. “Denise, Aaron died ten hours ago.”

“And a proper family honors their dead promptly,” she snapped. “Aaron was a pillar of our family, and he deserves dignity. The total estimate comes out to thirty-four thousand, eight hundred dollars. The funeral director requires a fifty percent deposit by noon to secure the date.”

I blinked, staring at the muted morning light outside the window. “Thirty-five thousand dollars?”

“Don’t pinch pennies on my dead son, Claire. You have the savings. You manage the accounts. Transfer the funds directly to the funeral home’s wire instructions, which Craig just emailed you.”

“Why isn't Craig paying? Or his father?” I asked, a sudden edge returning to my voice. “Where is Aaron’s car, Denise? When I left the hospital, his BMW wasn’t in the visitors’ lot.”

There was a pregnant, suffocating pause on the other end of the line.

“Craig drove it back to keep it safe,” Denise said smoothly, though the slight tremble in her voice betrayed her lie. “That’s none of your concern right now. What matters is Aaron’s legacy. Pay the deposit, Claire. It’s your duty as his widow.”

“I’ll review the arrangements myself,” I said.

“No, you will not interfere!” Denise hissed, her composure instantly shattering. “You were a cold, transactional wife to him. You don’t get to dictate how we lay him to rest. Pay the bill. If you don't, I will make sure everyone in our social circle knows you refused to bury your own husband.”

She hung up with a sharp click.

I lowered the phone, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked around the quiet living room. Something in my gut twisted violently. I opened my laptop and pulled up the GPS tracker linked to our family auto insurance policy.