Every Sunday, I visited my husband Owen’s grave, seeking solace and keeping his memory alive. A year had passed since his sudden death from a heart attack, which left a void that nothing could fill. For months, my weekly visits to the cemetery became a sacred ritual, allowing me to grieve and reflect in peace.

But three months ago, that peace was shattered when I began finding raw eggs smashed against his gravestone. At first, I dismissed it as a cruel prank, but when it happened repeatedly, I felt helpless and heartbroken. Determined to uncover the truth, I visited the grave early one morning, only to discover the culprit: my own sister, Madison.Madison’s shocking confession left me reeling—she claimed to have had a five-year affair with Owen and accused him of making empty promises to her. Her bitterness stemmed from receiving nothing after his death, while I inherited everything. Though devastated, I later learned from Madison’s daughter that her accusations were likely fueled by jealousy rather than truth. Despite the doubt she sowed, I chose to hold on to my memories of Owen as a loving husband and father. The following Sunday, I returned to the cemetery, bringing fresh flowers and a renewed sense of peace, whispering to Owen that I wouldn’t let Madison’s bitterness taint the love we shared.