My husband had been in his coffin only a few hours when my mother-in-law demanded our house keys. “Pack your bags, incubator,” she sneered, tossing a f3ke paternity test onto the coffin. “My son’s millions belong to his real family.” My husband’s lawyer entered with a projector. Then my husband’s face appeared on screen, and his first sentence made my mother-in-law collapse.

Security footage appeared.

The garage of our home.

The timestamp showed three nights before the accident.

A woman wearing gloves entered the frame. She moved toward Julián’s car, crouched near the brakes, and worked quickly.

Then she looked up toward the hidden camera.

The church erupted.

It was Doña Teresa.

My blood turned cold.

I pressed both hands over my stomach as if I could shield my son from the truth.

Julián had not died because of a mountain road.

He had died because his own mother wanted him gone.

“I discovered brake fluid leaking from my vehicle,” Julián said. “At first, I thought it was mechanical failure. Then I installed cameras.”

Doña Teresa stumbled backward.