Grief wasn’t a truck—it was drowning in slow motion. Three weeks after Peter’s sudden death, I was still clinging to his pillow, haunted by the thought that I might have saved him if I’d sent him to the doctor. When his sister, Miranda, invited me over for tea, I hoped for comfort. Instead, I walked into the start of a nightmare.

At first, she seemed kind, offering tea with a smile. Then her tone shifted: “What are you doing with the baby fund? Since you won’t be having kids, why not give it to us for my girls’ college?” My chest tightened. That money was Peter’s and mine, meant for the family we never got to have.

Before I could react, she slid a list across the table—school pickups, homework, cookies for fundraisers. “Better than just sitting around crying,” she chirped. I broke down, but she waved me off. “Move forward, Kate,” she said, as if my grief was an inconvenience she could schedule away.

Then a knock at the door changed everything. It was my mother-in-law, Susan, her eyes blazing. She’d overheard it all. “You may be my daughter, Miranda, but I won’t stand for this,” she said. Turning to me, her voice softened: “Go home, sweetheart. I’ll handle this.” For the first time, I realized Susan’s love wasn’t about what I could give—but because I was family, and I was enough.