The dim light was on, shadows shifting behind the walls.

I had just stepped out of the elevator when I spotted red New Year's wreaths on the door of my son's wedding apartment.

I slid my key in and turned it twice. The lock didn't budge.

Before I could knock, a child burst through the door and nearly knocked me over.

My son had been dead for three years. His apartment should have been empty.

From the kitchen came a woman's voice: "Don't go outside! Call your dad and tell him to come home for dinner."

The voice was bright and clear. The smell of a home-cooked meal filled the air.

His dad? I leaned toward the doorway.

When no one responded, the woman called out again: "Mom, call Julius. He should be here tonight eating with me and Myron James."

I fumbled and knocked a glass ornament off the entryway shelf. It shattered against the floor.

My husband's name was also Julius James.

……

My car was parked below the Newtide Gardens building.

Unit 601 in the west wing was my son's wedding apartment.

Three years ago, my son had died in an accident.

When I missed him, I would drive here and sit in the car downstairs.

But I never went up.

Today, I had just returned from my hometown after holding my son's third anniversary memorial. As always, I drove to the building.

Maybe it was the darkness, or maybe I was exhausted from the long drive, but my eyes seemed to be playing tricks on me. I could see a light on in 601.

I got out of the car and rubbed my eyes, counting the floors one by one.

There was no mistake. Unit 601. My son's wedding apartment. Not only were the lights on—there were people moving around inside.

Something was wrong.

After my son's death, the apartment had been sealed up.

Could it be burglars?

My heart hammered as I hurried into the elevator.

The moment I stepped out, the red New Year's wreaths on the door stung my eyes.

I dug out my key, shoved it into the lock, and twisted twice.

It wouldn't turn.

Then came a click. The lock opened from the inside.

A boy burst out of the apartment, nearly bowling me over where I stood in the doorway.

From the kitchen: "Don't go outside! Call your dad and tell him to come home for dinner."

The woman's voice was bright and clear. The smell of cooking filled my son's wedding apartment.

I stood in the doorway and looked around.

The furniture wasn't new. From the look of things, people had been living in my son's apartment for quite some time.

The woman didn't get a response. She called out again: "Mom, call Julius. He should be here tonight eating with me and Myron."

The name hit me like a jolt.

I fumbled the glass ornament on the entryway shelf. It slipped from my fingers and shattered against the tile, the sound cutting through the apartment.

An older woman emerged from the second bedroom. She didn't look much older than me.

"Myron, what have you broken now? Always getting into trouble."

The moment she saw me standing in the doorway, she froze.

She recognized me. That much was obvious.

"Mom, Myron's still little. Don't be so hard on him." The younger woman came out of the kitchen carrying dishes. She glanced at me. "Mom, who's this? A friend of yours?"

The older woman bit her lip and pulled the younger one into the kitchen.

The door slammed shut behind them.

Even with their voices lowered, I could still hear.

"How did she find this place?"

"Call Julius. Now."

The boy who had run out earlier came bouncing back, hopping up the hallway.

His eyes, his brow, the shape of his face. He looked so much like my son, Louis James.

If Louis were still alive, I would have wondered if this child was my grandson.

"Who are you? I don't know you." The boy stared up at me. "Mommy, there's a stranger in our house!"

His voice was small and piping.

"This is my son's apartment." I kept my voice steady.

The kitchen door flew open. The woman rushed out and pulled the child behind her.

She said nothing. She just stared at me, eyes locked on mine.

Her gaze was sharp with suspicion, guarding her territory against an uninvited intruder.

I looked past her. Above the sofa hung a photograph.

A family portrait. The older woman sat in the center, holding a baby.

My husband, Julius, had his arm around that woman, standing right beside her.

The family portrait was dated November 18, 2023.

Three days after my son's burial.

Every piece of furniture in this apartment was something I'd picked out myself. But not a single trace of the life being lived here belonged to me.

Before I'd gone back home, I'd seen Julius off to work at the door. The tie I'd knotted for him with my own hands hung on the coat rack. The vitamins I'd tucked into his bag, reminding him to take them every day, sat on the living room shelf.

Yet in this entire apartment, there wasn't a single sign I'd ever existed.

I sat down on the couch and forced my emotions into a tight knot.

"How long have you been living here?"

The woman started to answer, but the old lady grabbed her arm.

"Pamela, if you have questions, take them up with Julius."

The old woman called me by name. She knew exactly who I was.

"I will ask him. But right now, I'm asking you."

"Julius told us himself—he doesn't love you. The only reason he hasn't divorced you is because he pities you." The woman pulled the child closer, cradling him like a trophy, her eyes gleaming. "Your son is dead. You're old. You can't have any more children. Everything the James family has will belong to Myron."

"When did you move in?"

I asked again.

She pointed at the family portrait. "You can see for yourself. That was taken right after I moved in. Our first photo together."

Louis died on November 15. An accident.

Three days.

He couldn't even wait seven.

He'd moved his mistress and his illegitimate child into the wedding apartment I'd prepared for my son.

The woman's phone rang. She shouted into it like a drowning person calling for a lifeline.

"Julius, she's here! She's sitting in the living room right now!"

His voice on the other end turned frantic.

"Wait for me. I'm coming back."

This morning, before I'd started my trip back, I'd asked him if he had time to pick me up.

His reply had been short. "Business trip. No time."

Business trip. No time.

So his business trips only applied to me. His time had never been mine to have.

I stood and pointed to the spot in the center of the living room where the memorial tablet should have been.

"What happened to what was here? Where did you put it?"

The woman pointed a trembling finger toward the utility closet beside the bathroom.

I dug through the clutter. My son's memorial tablet, his name carved into the wood, was buried beneath a pile of garbage.

It had been snapped in two. A wooden splinter sliced across my palm.

Blood welled up, but I didn't feel a thing.

"Pamela, now that you know, why don't you do yourself a favor and bow out gracefully?" The woman wouldn't stop talking. "You're just some old woman. You have nothing left to offer Julius. Why keep him chained down with a marriage certificate?"

Every word dripped with venom, thick with indignation—as though the one who'd seduced Julius and wrecked a marriage wasn't her, but me.

I cradled the broken tablet against my chest and walked toward the door.

"You don't get to say those things to me."

I stopped in front of her and looked her dead in the eye.

I raised my hand and wiped the blood from my palm.

The front door slammed open with a bang. Julius burst in, gasping for air, sweat beading across his forehead. He must have taken the stairs all the way up to the sixth floor.

"Pamela, you've gone too far!"

He seized my wrist and squeezed. Hard.

Then he saw the blood dripping from my palm. His grip loosened. He let go.

And stepped back to shield the woman and the child behind him.

"Beulah, go inside. I'll handle this."

Beulah. Beulah Henson.

So it was her.

The scholarship student Julius had been sponsoring for ten years.

Once the bedroom door clicked shut and he was satisfied that I posed no threat to Beulah and her family, Julius dropped his guard.

"Pamela, let me explain."

I glared at him, clutching my son's memorial tablet to my chest as I headed for the door.

I shook off his grip. Ignored him calling after me.

I stepped into the elevator.

Pressed the button for the lobby.

The stale breath I'd been holding finally left my lungs.

I needed his explanation.

But not now.

When I reached the ground floor, Julius hadn't followed.

I sat in my car, forcing myself to breathe.

No wonder Julius had never wanted me coming to the wedding apartment.

He'd told me not to keep torturing myself with memories. To let go for my own sake, and for our son's.

I'd taken his words to heart.

When I missed my son, I'd just sit in the car downstairs for a while. Never going up.

He hadn't been trying to spare me the grief.

He'd been trying to keep me from discovering Beulah, hidden away inside my son's apartment.

For the third anniversary of my son's passing, I'd originally wanted to keep things simple.

But Julius said I should give our son a proper farewell. That only by letting go could I find peace in my remaining years.

I did as he said.

Today, I'd come here intending to take one last look at the apartment. To truly say goodbye to my son.

I never expected what I'd find instead.

My phone kept buzzing.

Julius, calling over and over.

I declined the calls. After a while, he seemed to lose patience.

The calls stopped.

Thirty-five years of marriage, and I had never once doubted him. Even our friends praised us as the perfect couple.

After our son died, Julius worried I might do something rash. He took time off work specifically to stay by my side.

Now it all made sense. That leave wasn't for me or our son.

Beulah and her child had just moved into the apartment. He needed time to help them settle in.

The text messages kept coming.

"Pamela, let's sit down and talk about this. Don't do anything rash."

"Beulah says if you don't make a scene, she's willing to let Myron call you his godmother."

"Pamela, believe me. I had my reasons."

Reasons.

What reason could possibly justify moving his mistress and her illegitimate child into our son's apartment three days after the funeral?

What reason could justify deceiving me so seamlessly, for so many years?

Back at home, I looked at the family portrait hanging on the wall.

All I felt was mockery.

If I calculated backward from that child's age, then at the time Julius and I had posed for this photo with our son, the affair had already begun.

I sank onto the couch and forced myself to think clearly.

What I needed to determine was whether Beulah was merely occupying my son's apartment or whether she had actually taken ownership of it.

I had paid the down payment on that apartment with my personal savings.

After our son's accident, Julius pressured me into using the wrongful death settlement to pay off the remaining mortgage in one lump sum.

I dug through our files, searching for the deed.

I found it in a dusty box.

Owner: Pamela Mason.

Seeing my own name, I exhaled with relief.

But even holding the deed, I still wasn't at ease.

I called the property management office.

"Hello, I'd like to confirm who's listed as the owner of unit 601."

I heard the click of a keyboard on the other end.

"One moment, ma'am. Let me pull that up."

"The current resident of 601 is a Ms. Beulah Henson, and the registered owner is also Ms. Beulah Henson."

The woman's voice hit me like a sledgehammer.

"That's impossible. Are you sure there isn't a mistake?"

A few seconds of silence.

"One moment, ma'am. Let me double-check."

"No, ma'am, the records are correct. Our system shows Ms. Beulah Henson as the owner. The title was transferred in December 2023. Ms. Henson holds full ownership of the property."

Two sentences, and they shattered me.

Less than a month after my son's death.

The apartment I had bought with my own savings. The mortgage I had paid off with my son's settlement money.