My husband, Captain Daniel Hayes, had died six months earlier during a mission overseas. A communications failure. His team had called for extraction, but their signal was jammed. The helicopters never found them.
He bled out in the dark.
He never knew I was pregnant.
Right on cue, the front door swung open.
A wave of expensive perfume filled the house as Ashley walked in, wrapped in designer fabric like she was stepping into a photoshoot instead of a home. Behind her was her husband, Brandon—confident, smug, the kind of man who always believed he belonged wherever he stood.
“Please don’t start crying, Emily,” Ashley sighed, her tone dripping with fake sympathy. “It’s temporary. Brandon needs a proper office, and honestly… your constant grieving is bringing down the energy in the house.”
The energy.
I stared at her, waiting for anger, for pain, for something.
Nothing came.
That version of me—the one who begged for kindness—was gone.
“Of course,” I said quietly.
My mother nodded, satisfied. “Good. There’s a camping cot in storage. Try not to make a mess—Brandon parks his car in there.”
Brandon chuckled under his breath.
I turned and walked upstairs without another word.