Grief is a heavy thing, but betrayal? That’s a weight I wasn’t prepared to carry at my father’s funeral.
From the moment Vivian and her children walked in—dressed in blinding white—I knew something was off. She carried herself like a woman who had won a prize, not lost a husband. When she produced a letter, claiming it was my father’s request that they wear white, my stomach turned.
It didn’t make sense. My father had always been a private man, uninterested in flashy gestures. But before I could question her, Joe stepped up to speak.
What he revealed left the room in shock.
My father’s letter laid bare the truth: Vivian had been stealing from him. She and her children had treated him like an ATM, disappearing whenever he needed them most. The white outfits? A final act of defiance. “Let them wear their shame for all to see,” he had written.
Vivian’s face went slack. Her children, who had been smirking moments before, looked like they wanted to vanish. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, their judgment unmistakable.
With nowhere left to hide, Vivian turned on her heel and stormed out, her children scrambling after her.
And just like that, the funeral became what it was always meant to be—a celebration of my father’s life, free from the shadows of deceit.
