My husband said he had to work overtime on Memorial Day, so I went to visit my mother-in-law's grave alone.

When I arrived, I found a woman there with a small child, paying her respects at the very same headstone.

I asked who she was, and she answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world:

"My husband was too busy with work today, so I brought our son to visit his grandmother's grave."

I froze.

My mother-in-law only had one son. If this woman was her daughter-in-law, then who was I?

……

"Are you a relative of my husband's family? I don't think we've met before."

While I stood there in stunned silence, Iris Fox turned to me, her voice soft and curious.

Her tone was gentle, her smile polished and warm. She carried herself with an effortless grace.

The Impostor little boy beside her tilted his head, studying me with wide, curious eyes.

I looked at the two of them and couldn't help asking:

"Have you met many of his relatives?"

Iris blinked, clearly not expecting the question.

But she recovered quickly, smiling. "Oh, sure. Roy loves visiting family. Every holiday, he insists on dragging me along to see everyone."

"Sometimes I complain about how exhausting it is and try to get out of it."

"I guess this is what I get for slacking off. I can't even recognize a relative who's come to visit his mother's grave." She gave me an apologetic look, her expression warm and sincere.

But I stared at her, eyes wide with disbelief.

"You're saying Roy likes visiting relatives?"

Iris nodded. "Absolutely."

"Especially after Tommy was born. He got even more enthusiastic about it. He wanted to carry the baby around and introduce him to every single person in the family. He kept saying Tommy was the James family's legacy, and that every relative needed to know him."

That was impossible.

Roy James hated the small talk and forced pleasantries that came with family visits. He despised them.

We'd dated for five years and been married for six.

In all eleven of those years, he had only introduced me to his relatives once, on our wedding day.

Even during the holidays, whenever I suggested visiting family, he always said the same thing:

"Visiting relatives is exhausting. Everyone asks a million questions, and you'd be uncomfortable the whole time."

"We finally have some time off. I just want to stay home with you. I don't want to waste our time on meaningless obligations."

I'd always believed he was being considerate.

I'd even felt lucky that I didn't have to deal with his side of the family, all those in-laws I barely knew.

But now Iris was telling me that Roy's favorite thing to do was take her to visit those same relatives?

Those relatives had attended our wedding. Many of them still had my number saved in their phones.

If Roy was parading another woman and child around so openly, wasn't he afraid someone would expose him? That one of them would tell me he had a mistress and an illegitimate son?

I forced down the storm churning inside me and looked at the grave. It was immaculate, carefully tended, not a single weed in sight.

"Do you come here often?" I asked.

Iris smiled softly. "Every Memorial Day, my husband brings us here."

"He says it's the most important day for our family to be together with his mother. We usually stay the whole day."

Something cold settled in my chest.

No wonder Roy never let me come with him on Memorial Day. Not once, in all those years.

He always said my health was too fragile, that cemeteries had bad energy, that it might bring me misfortune.

I'd been touched by how protective he was. How thoughtful.

Now I realized he wasn't protecting me. He was protecting their family reunion from my intrusion.

While I stood there reeling, Iris's son suddenly pointed at the chrysanthemums in my hand, his small face scrunched in confusion.

"Ma'am, why did you bring chrysanthemums for my grandma?"

"My grandma hated chrysanthemums."

I looked down at the flowers in my hand, stunned.

"Sweetie, I think you might be remembering wrong. Your grandma loved chrysanthemums when she was alive."

I remembered it clearly. My mother-in-law's favorite flower had always been chrysanthemums.

The very first time I met her, she'd taken me by the hand and led me out to the balcony to show off every variety she'd planted there. Her face had lit up as she told me each one was her treasure.

But the little boy shook his head with absolute certainty.

"My daddy said Grandma hated chrysanthemums. She thought they were bad luck because people only give them to dead people."

"Daddy told us we could only bring lilies to Grandma's grave. No other flowers allowed."

How was that possible?

My mother-in-law used to say that chrysanthemums were the noblest of flowers, blooming defiantly through frost and snow, full of dignity and backbone.

She'd even used a chrysanthemum as her profile picture.

Roy knew that better than anyone.

He would never have said something like that.

Unless this was a different person entirely?

I turned to Iris, choosing my words carefully.

"Could I see a photo of your husband and your mother-in-law?"

Iris blinked, seeming caught off guard by the request.

But she nodded politely, pulled her phone from her bag, and began scrolling.

"She passed so early that I never met her in person. I only have a few photos my husband sent me."

She talked as she scrolled, then held out the screen to show me a photo of an elderly woman.

In the picture, the woman wore a red coat, seated upright in a chair with a warm, gentle smile.

It was her. It was definitely my mother-in-law.

And I was the one who had taken that photo.

It was from Roy's and my engagement party.

Not long after I'd snapped it, she passed away. She never even made it to our wedding.

Iris swiped to the next image, pulling up a group photo.

"This is my husband with me and our son."

My heart lurched the moment I saw it.

It was Roy. My husband, Roy James.

He was wearing the blue button-down I'd given him, one arm around Iris, the other cradling the child. All three of them beaming, the picture of a happy family.

While I stood there staring at the photo, the little boy puffed out his chest proudly. "My daddy's a real hero, you know."

"See that scar on his hand? He got it saving someone's life. It took more than a dozen stitches!"

My gaze dropped to the unmistakable scar on the man's wrist, and a sharp ache pierced through me.

Of course I knew where that scar came from.

Five years ago, we'd gone to the beach on vacation. A wave caught me and dragged me under. He didn't hesitate for a second before diving in after me.

The rocks beneath the surface were razor-sharp. One sliced his wrist wide open, blood pouring out, staining the water red around us.

But he didn't care about the pain. He held on to me with everything he had, refusing to let go, nearly getting swept away himself.

Later, at the hospital, I'd cried the entire time they stitched him up. I even looked into finding the best surgeon to remove the scar.

He just shook his head and smiled.

"You're ridiculous. This scar is a symbol of our love. I'm keeping it."

"Every time I see it, it'll remind me how close I came to losing the most important person in my life. It'll remind me to never take you for granted."

And now, those same hands that were supposed to symbolize his love for me were wrapped around another woman, in another family's portrait.

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and handed the phone back to Iris.

Then I looked at the little boy standing before me, the one who looked so much like Roy, and asked, "How old are you, sweetie?"

He tilted his head up and held out four fingers. "I'm four!"

Four years old?

That was impossible.

I stared at Iris, unable to hide my disbelief. "Your son is really four?"

Iris gave me an odd look, then nodded.

"Yes. He was born four years ago, in May."

"What's wrong?"

Something wasn't right.

Roy had gotten a permanent vasectomy five years ago.

Five years ago, I'd been pregnant.

But when I was seven months along, Roy left an important document at home. I was on my way to bring it to him when a car that had lost control slammed into me.

I hemorrhaged on the spot and blacked out.

When I woke up, the doctor told me the baby was gone. My uterus had been severely damaged and had to be removed. I would never be able to have children again.

I was devastated. I cried the entire night in that hospital bed, and then I asked Roy for a divorce.

His family had been an only-child lineage for generations. I didn't want the James bloodline to end with me.

But Roy held me tight, refusing to let go, and said with absolute conviction:

"I would rather never have children than lose you."

I thought he was just saying it to comfort me.

But that same day, he went and got a vasectomy.

I would never forget the look on his face when he came off the operating table, completely sincere:

"See? Now I can't have children either."

"Don't you ever try to push me away again."

I'd been so moved I could barely breathe. I held onto him and cried for what felt like hours.

"Ma'am, are you okay?"

The little boy's voice pulled me back to the present.

I looked down at him. Those brows. Those features. They were identical to Roy's.

Anyone with eyes could see it. He was Roy's biological son.

But if Roy had gotten a permanent vasectomy five years ago, where had this four-year-old come from?

Had Roy lied to me?

No. I remembered. I'd tried to talk him out of it, told him not to be impulsive.

The doctor had even explained that there were two types of vasectomies. One was reversible. If you wanted children later, a second procedure could restore fertility.

The other was permanent. Once it was done, there was no going back.

Roy had insisted on the permanent one. He wanted to prove his commitment, and nothing I said could change his mind.

He'd even let me watch the entire procedure.

There was no way it had been faked.

So what didn't add up?

"You look terrible. Are you feeling alright?"

Iris was watching me with concern, worry pooling in her eyes.

I shook my head and brushed it off. "I'm fine."

"Probably just hungry. Low blood sugar."

The moment she heard that, Iris dug through her bag and pulled out a chocolate bar.

"My son gets low blood sugar all the time, so I always keep candy on me."

"Here, eat this. It'll help."

I took the chocolate, instinctively about to thank her, when my gaze snagged on something inside her open bag.

"Is that... a marriage certificate?"

Iris followed my line of sight and smiled, pulling it out.

"It is! My husband and I got it five years ago."

"He was so silly that day. After we got our license, he was so excited he picked me up and spun me around right there in the clerk's office. He even tripped and fell."

She opened the certificate and held it out to me.

In the photo, Roy was wearing a white dress shirt, beaming with pure happiness.

The date in the bottom right corner was perfectly clear. Five years ago.

But I had already been legally married to Roy for a year by then.

How could he have gone to get a marriage license with someone else while he was still married to me?

What was going on?

"Oh, by the way, we've been chatting all this time and I still don't know your name."

While my mind was still reeling, Iris smiled and asked.

I looked into her earnest eyes, hesitated for just a second, and said it plainly:

"My name is Virginia Simmons."

The moment she heard my name, Iris froze. The smile on her face turned to stone.