The rain didn’t just fall; it crashed.

It pounded those black umbrellas surrounding the open grave, streaming down their surfaces like ink spilled from a pen. In the midst of this storm, over a deep rectangular void in the earth, lay the polished mahogany casket containing my husband, Samuel.

He was just thirty-four.

I found myself at the grave’s edge, enveloped in an oppressive black mourning coat that did little to conceal my nine-month pregnancy. My grip tightened on the brass handle of Samuel’s casket, causing my knuckles to pale with intensity. Waves of grief, terror, and an unbearable physical pressure suffocated me.

On the opposite side of the grave stood Vivian Hale, my mother-in-law. She bore wealth like a shield and displayed her sorrow theatrically. A delicate black lace veil obscured her face, yet her posture was unyielding, impeccably poised for the upper-crust attendees clustered beneath umbrellas.

Flanking her was Derek, Samuel’s younger brother, discreetly checking the $40,000 Patek Philippe watch that Samuel had gifted him months prior to alleviate a gambling plight.

In that intense moment, pain surged through me.

It was piercing. Blazing. Unyielding.

I inhaled sharply, my knees buckling as a warm trickle of fluid soaked through my black tights, collecting at my feet.