They weren’t trying to help me recover.
They were planning to make sure I never touched what my husband had left behind.
Quietly, I stepped away from the doorway.
My first instinct was to burst in and confront them—to shout, to demand answers.
But anger would only give them control.
So instead, I walked into the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and let the water run so it sounded like I had just arrived. I took a few deep breaths and forced my expression to calm down.
Then I entered the dining room.
They all looked up at once.
My mother rushed toward me immediately.
“Oh sweetheart,” she said with practiced concern. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m… trying,” I replied honestly.
My father gestured for me to sit.
“We’ve been worried about you.”
Marina squeezed my hand gently.
“We’re here for you.”
I sat and watched them rearrange their expressions into sympathy.
My father leaned forward.
“Claire, we need to talk about practical matters. Estate matters. You shouldn’t deal with this alone.”
My mother nodded.
“You’re grieving. Let us take care of things.”
