Camille expected closure, not tragedy, when she heard her husband’s will. As the lawyer read his dying wishes, the truth hit hard: he gave everything to his mistress. Not his grieving wife. And that awful betrayal? Camille was unaware of the intricate web of secrets that followed.

The dashboard was streaked with beautiful, golden sunlight through the windshield. Camille was too exhausted and grieving to feel its warmth. She clutched the steering wheel as if losing it would shatter her.

Her boys played again in the backseat.

Give it back! Jonah yelled, pulling a crumpled food wrapper.

“You had your turn!” Mason countered by swatting his brother’s hand.

‘You’re both behaving silly! Their sister Mia snarled from the center seat, arms crossed, trying to seem older than ten. “Dad won’t approve.”

Camille gently breathed, whitening clutching wheel. “Please,” she pleaded, her voice fragile and about to shatter. Just five quiet minutes. Please.”

Tense, pouting stillness filled the car.

Camille never intended to be a single mother. Her life was upended two weeks ago when her husband Jackson died of a heart attack. The funeral, condolences, and casseroles from caring neighbors felt strange. Will reading. One more unasked-for duty.

She sent off the kids at school with tired kisses and mild reminders.

Jonah waved as he ran, Mason dragged his backpack, and Mia softly tugged Camille’s sleeve.

You’ll be fine, right? Mia whispered.

Camille bent down and looked her in the eyes, brushing a wayward hair behind her ear. Everyone will be OK. I assure you.”

Mia nodded and joined her brothers. Camille got back in the car, locked the door, and let the silence fall like dust. A old Polaroid fell into her lap when she lowered the sun visor to avoid the glare.

She and Jackson were on Santa Cruz’s coast. Windblown and grinning, he hugged her like the world had stopped.

Sharp, rapid tears. She pressed her forehead to the wheel and cried, grieving him as the man she loved truly and fully, not as a father or provider.

She drove to the legal office after wiping her face and fiddling with her lipstick.

Green & Lang has a clean, sterile welcome room. The fragrance was lemon cleanser and copier toner. Everything was excessively clean and silent.

Camille straightened her top and entered, where a tall blonde woman greeted her. She had a neat bun, pressed blue suit, and polished grin.

“You must be Camille Weston,” she continued. I’m Jackson’s attorney, Lauren Green.”

Camille blinked. “You were his lawyer?” Her voice sounded hesitant.

Lauren nodded, providing a clipboard. “I’ll read Mr. Weston’s final will.”

Camille rapidly wrote her name. Let’s finish this. My three kids and pile of laundry await.”

“Of course,” Lauren said calmly. Too measured smile again. Too arrogant.

They sat. Lauren read from a thin cream folder.

“As instructed by Jackson Weston… First item: family home Second item: vehicle Items 3: Savings and Investment Accounts

Camille awaited her name. Expected it.

But then—

“All assets go to Lauren Green.”

Room slanted.

I’m sorry—what? Camille said, her voice sharpening.

Lauren gazed up, calm. “Everything was mine.”

Camille laughed—astonished and tense. “You? Lawyer you are. How could he leave you everything?

Lauren said, “I was more than his lawyer,” compromising her decency. “He loved me.”

The world paused. Camille’s speed made her chair shriek.

“You slept with my husband?”

Lauren gave a half-shrug, showing she was tired with the act. “Nothing was your business anymore.”

Camille stared at her, heart pounding ribcage. You’ll regret it.”

Lauren remained silent. Camille turned and left, shaking hands and clenching teeth against the scream attacking her throat.

As usual, she picked up the kids that afternoon. Jonah chatted about soccer, Mia waved her class paper craft, while Mason brooded at the rear. They had no idea their world was disintegrating.

Camille’s stomach fell at the driveway.

A suit-clad man with a folder and clipboard stood on the porch. Stepped forward.

Mrs. Weston?

“Yes,” she answered slowly.

I represent the new property owner. Unfortunately, you and your children must go within seven days.”

She watched. Are you evicting us? I live here.”

He said, “I’m sorry,” without expression. Legally transferred ownership. Everything’s right.”

Camille pleaded, argued, cursed—nothing changed. Leaves peacefully as he arrived.

She entered the house, closed the door, and sank. The kids surrounded her, confused and scared. She wanted to comfort them but couldn’t speak.

“Do we have to leave?” Mason inquired softly.

Camille lied through her teeth to him. “No, baby. We’ll solve it.”

Camille cleaned up Jackson’s closet after the kids went to bed. She did not want reminders. Not now.

A blazer and envelope tumbled off the top shelf.

Her name was there. Handwritten in Jackson’s signature style.

She ripped it open with shaking hands.

Camille,

This is my last message.

Lauren has my will, yet she seems odd. Note: This is the authentic version. Give to a trusted person.

You were my greatest joy. Sorry I didn’t always show it.

I adore you.

Always.

—Jackson

Another document—a notary-sealed will—was within.

Camille gasped and grasped the paper. He suspected. He sought to shield them.

Not anymore grief. War cry.

Camille called Grace Morrison, a local lawyer and retired judge known for her sharp tongue and integrity, the next morning. Camille revealed Lauren’s treason, the bogus will, and the eviction notice.

Grace relaxed in her chair, glasses on her nose.

“Well,” she said. “She picked the wrong widow to mess with.”

A week later, they were in court.

Camille watched Lauren’s smug expression shatter as the truth emerged. Jackson signed letter. A notarized will. Grace’s sealed case.

Lauren was pale and dumbfounded when Camille won the case. After losing her inheritance, she lost her law license.

The fraud charges were filed.

Camille didn’t celebrate Lauren’s downfall, but she felt better. Finally, justice.

Camille sat on the front porch sipping coffee weeks later on a Sunday morning. Warm air, freshly mowed grass. Her house stood like a recaptured castle behind her.

The youngsters played outside. Mia ran wearing a daisy crown.

“These are for you,” she boasted.

Camille smiled and gently placed the crown on her head. “Thanks, baby.”

She gazed at the sky with strength, not tears.

“We’re going to be fine,” she muttered. “I promise.”