My Dad Chose His Mistress Over My Mom’s Funeral And That Night Changed Everything

I swore not to tell a soul. Not my best friend, not the police.

Not yet. But patience was never my strength.

At eight in the morning my father called. His tone was smooth, almost cheerful.

“Grace, darling. I’m finalizing your mother’s estate today. I just need your signature on a few documents.”

My grip tightened until my nails bit into my palm.

“Documents?”

“Just routine paperwork,”

he said lightly.

“Nothing to concern yourself with. Stop by the mansion tonight.”

I agreed, then sent Mom a text.

“He’s making his move.”

Her reply came instantly.

“Let him think he’s winning.”

That evening, the home I’d grown up in felt foreign, like a stranger’s house wearing my childhood skin. The house sparkled, polished stone underfoot, glittering crystal above.

Yet the atmosphere felt dense and wrong. He greeted me with that practiced politician’s grin.

“You look tired, Grace. Too many sleepless nights over old things.”

“Over dead things,”

I replied, voice edged.

“Or people we’re supposed to have lost.”

He hesitated, an instant of sharp focus in his eyes.

“Careful with your words,”

he warned. We took our seats in his office.

He pushed a heavy folder toward me across the desk.

“These are transfer forms for your mother’s properties. Since you’re the sole heir, I need your signature to consolidate ownership. Then we can move forward.”

I skimmed the documents, pulse racing. My mother’s handwriting was on the pages, a flawless imitation.

“You forged her signature,”

I said, looking up slowly. He laughed softly.

“You think I need to forge anything? Your mother agreed to this before she passed.”

I stood.

“Strange,”

I replied.

“Because I remember her swearing she’d rather burn everything than let you have it.”

His expression snapped shut.

“Sit down.”

“I’m not signing, Grace,”

he said in a low voice as he leaned in.

“I know you’re grieving, but don’t make me force you to do what’s necessary.”

That voice, cold and commanding, had haunted my mother for years. My hands shook, not from fear, but from fury.

“You already killed her once,”

I told him. He stiffened.

“What did you say?”

His chair scraped as he rose.

“You won’t get away with it,”

I said, locking my gaze on his. A flash of alarm passed over him.

He grabbed the folder, breathing hard, and barked.

“Get out now.”

I turned toward the door but caught in the office mirror the glint of a small safe behind his desk, a keypad partly concealed by a family photograph.