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

He stood in the rain, soaked to the bone, fury burning in his eyes; his tailored suit clung to him like a crumbling disguise.

“Where is she?”

he demanded. I stepped into the doorway.

“Who, Dad? The wife you buried? The woman you tried to erase?”

His jaw clenched.

“You have no idea what she did. She destroyed me.”

“She loved you,”

I said quietly.

“You destroyed yourself.”

He shoved past me, shouting her name into the house.

“Evelyn!”

Mom appeared at the end of the hallway, frail, pale, but unshaken.

“I’m right here.”

He froze. For a moment even the storm outside seemed to hold its breath.

His face drained of color.

“No, no, this can’t be. You’re dead.”

Her voice was calm, sharp as glass.

“You tried to make me dead?”

He gave a broken laugh, trembling with rage.

“You think you can take what’s mine? My company? My legacy? You’re nothing without me.”

I stepped between them.

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

In the distance, sirens wailed, growing louder. His eyes darted toward the window, panic spreading across his face.

“What did you do?”

Mom didn’t flinch.

“Exactly what you taught us. Cover the trail. Only this time, you left too many.”

Moments later, red and blue light flooded the house. The front door burst open and agents stormed in, weapons raised.

“Richard Miller!”

one of them shouted.

“You’re under arrest for financial fraud, money laundering, and attempted murder.”

He turned toward me, desperation overtaking arrogance.

“Grace, tell them they’re wrong. Tell them you—”

I met his gaze and shook my head.

“You buried the wrong woman, Dad.”

He lunged forward shouting incoherently, but agents grabbed him, twisting his arms behind his back. The rain outside swelled into a roar, drowning out everything but the sound of his fury.

As they led him out, he threw one last glare at Mom.

“You’ll regret this,”

he hissed. She watched him go, voice barely above a whisper.

“No, Richard. I already did.”

When the door shut, the house sank into silence, broken only by the soft drip of rain from the porch roof. I realized the trembling in my hands wasn’t from fear anymore; it was relief.

Mom collapsed into my arms, her sobs quiet against my shoulder.

“It’s over,”

she whispered. I held her close, feeling the pulse beneath her skin, the same heart that was never supposed to beat again.

“No,”

I said softly.

“It’s just beginning.”

Outside the first light of dawn stretched across the soaked earth, erasing the night. For the first time since the funeral, the rain had finally stopped.

The following weeks blurred into a storm of news flashes, subpoenas, and headlines. Real estate mogul Richard Miller arrested for fraud and attempted murder.

Every channel showed his photo, once the charming face of success, now stamped beneath the words “criminal investigation.” Mom and I watched from a quiet hotel room far from Portland, hiding from the noise.

She rarely spoke, her hands wrapped around a cup of untouched tea. One morning she finally said.

“When I married your father, I thought he was a man who built things. I never realized he was the kind who destroyed them.”

I reached across the table and took her hand.

“He won’t destroy us again.”

Three months later, the trial began. The courtroom overflowed with reporters, lawyers, and shareholders who once toasted him but now whispered from the shadows.

My father sat at the defense table, his suit wrinkled, hair unkempt, his old confidence gone. He never once looked our way.