At Javier Bennett’s funeral, I kept one hand over my eight-week belly like my body already knew I needed to protect what no one else could see.

No one knew I was pregnant.
Not even Javier—he hadn’t lived long enough for me to tell him.

The service was ending in a quiet funeral home outside Boston, all black coats and staged sympathy, when my in-laws cornered me between the wreaths like they’d been waiting for the room to empty.

My mother-in-law, Paula Bennett, didn’t offer a hug. She offered a folder.

“The house and the car go to Lydia,” she hissed, sliding the papers toward me. “Sign.”
Lydia—Javier’s sister—stood beside her, eyes dry, mouth already curled like she’d won.

Behind them, Javier’s father, Ray Bennett, watched like an enforcer.

I blinked once, still seeing Javier’s casket when I closed my eyes.

I had bought the house before we married.
I paid for the car myself when my consulting firm finally took off.
And Javier—on the advice of his own notary—had signed a separate property agreement because he didn’t want his family “touching my life.”

They knew all of that.

“They’re mine,” I said, surprised by how calm my voice sounded.

Lydia’s lip lifted.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Javier’s gone.