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

“Sure, Dad. I’ll go.”

I let a small smile show. That night sleep eluded me.

After midnight, I let myself back into his office with the old spare key I’d kept since childhood. The safe surrendered on the third attempt.

Of course, his code was my mother’s birthday. Inside lay bank records, movements to offshore accounts, forged agreements, and a lone flash drive.

I copied every file onto my own drive and slipped out as quietly as I’d come. By the time I reached my car my hands were trembling.

I texted mom.

“Got it.”

Her reply appeared almost instantly.

“Good. But be careful, Grace. He’ll find out.”

The message had barely sent when another came through from an unknown number.

“You think I wouldn’t notice, Grace?”

The words froze my blood. It was him, my father.

The street outside was deserted, just rain, the glow of street lights, and my reflection shaking behind the glass. My chest tightened.

He knew. Then the phone rang, his voice poured through the speaker, calm and composed.

Too calm.

“You were always clever,”

he said.

“But you seem to forget who taught you how to lie.”

I forced my voice steady.

“You don’t scare me.”

He chuckled softly.

“Don’t I? Come home, Grace. We’ll talk. Otherwise I’ll make sure you regret stealing from me.”

“Stealing?”

I shot back.

“You mean evidence.”

Silence. Long, deliberate, suffocating.

Then, in a low voice.

“If you’re smart, you’ll destroy it. Otherwise we may need another funeral.”

The line went dead. For a moment I sat frozen, watching my pale reflection in the windshield.

Then I heard my mother’s words echo in my head.

“He’ll come for everything, even you.”

“Not this time.”

I drove straight to the safe house. Mom met me at the door, still in her robe, eyes wide.

“Grace, what happened?”

“He knows,”

I said, tossing the flash drive onto the table.

“We have to move now. These files—offshore accounts, forged contracts, fake transfers—it’s all there, enough to destroy him.”

She stared at the drive then at me.

“If we go to the police, he’ll find us before they act.”

I drew a shaking breath.

“Then we’ll make him destroy himself.”

Over the next 48 hours, with Martha’s help, we sent the evidence anonymously to the FBI and financial authorities. Mom reached out to an old friend, Charlotte Wells, a lawyer who began drafting a formal statement for when the truth came out.

But the storm didn’t wait. It arrived ahead of schedule.

Two nights later, a pair of headlights cut through the darkness outside the safe house. Mom lifted the curtain and her breath caught.

“It’s him,”

she whispered. The pounding that followed shook the doorframe.

“Grace!”

His voice thundered through the wood.

“Open up. Let’s finish this nonsense.”

Mom’s fingers wrapped around mine, trembling.

“Don’t. He’s dangerous.”

But I’d had enough of fear. I pulled the door open.