My husband had been in his coffin only a few hours when my mother-in-law demanded our house keys. “Pack your bags, incubator,” she sneered, tossing a f3ke paternity test onto the coffin. “My son’s millions belong to his real family.” My husband’s lawyer entered with a projector. Then my husband’s face appeared on screen, and his first sentence made my mother-in-law collapse.

“No, Mother. I was not the sick one. I simply realized too late how far you were willing to go.”

A chill moved through my entire body.

Arturo signaled with his hand. One of the people who had entered with him closed the church doors from the inside.

Doña Teresa noticed immediately.

“Why are they closing the doors? What does this mean?”

No one answered.

The screen now showed a nighttime recording from the garage of our house in Las Lomas. The date appeared in the corner: three days before the accident.

The image was black and white, but it was clear enough. A woman in a dark coat, wearing gloves and carrying a large bag, entered the garage. She walked directly toward Julián’s car.

My heart began pounding.

The woman crouched beside the vehicle.

Fernanda began crying silently.

“No…” she whispered.

Doña Teresa snapped toward her.

“Be quiet!”

But it was too late.

On the screen, the woman lifted her face toward a camera she had not known existed.

It was Doña Teresa.