After that, the details blurred together—wet pavement, loss of control, a crash into a tree. My son had died at the scene.

His wife, Vanessa, survived almost unharmed.

I held onto the doorframe to steady myself.

My child was gone.

David’s funeral took place two days later. I moved through the service like a ghost while people hugged me and whispered condolences.

Vanessa cried loudly through most of it. At the time, I believed her sorrow was genuine.

I didn’t yet know it was the last day she would pretend.

Two days after the funeral, the doorbell rang.

When I opened the door, my two-year-old twin grandsons stood there in their pajamas.

Jeffrey held a stuffed dinosaur. George stood beside him with his thumb in his mouth.

Next to them sat a large trash bag filled with clothes.

Vanessa pushed the bag toward me.

“I’m not meant for this kind of life,” she said coldly. “I want to live freely.”