After my husband’s funeral, I returned home with my black dress still clinging to my skin. I opened the door… and found my mother-in-law and eight family members packing suitcases as if it were a hotel.

Marjorie ignored the question as if I hadn’t spoken.

She tapped the dining table once with two fingers and said, very clearly, “This house is ours now. Everything of Bradley’s too. You need to leave.”

I looked around the room slowly.

Fiona was rifling through drawers.

Declan was zipping up one of Bradley’s travel bags.

One of the younger cousins carried framed photographs under his arm as if they were party leftovers.

No one stopped. No one looked ashamed. No one even looked surprised to see me.

It was as if I had been buried along with my husband.

“Who let you in?” I asked.

Marjorie reached into her handbag and held up a brass key.

“I’m his mother,” she said. “I have always had one.”