Behind him came Vanessa.

Coral dress. High heels. Shiny earrings. Perfect lipstick. She looked ready for a Sunday lunch at an expensive restaurant, not to say goodbye to the woman who had welcomed her into our home when she was barely even my son’s girlfriend. While everyone else prayed, she touched up her makeup using her phone’s camera. And when she thought no one was watching, she even adjusted her hair over her shoulder with a little smile of satisfaction.

During Elena’s last year of illness, I learned something I never wanted to know: when death comes close, people stop pretending.

Vanessa did go see Elena, of course. But not to keep her company.

She went to ask about paperwork. About the house. About the insurance. About the accounts. She said things like, “We should start figuring out how everything is going to be organized.” I never once heard her speak of hope, comfort, or gratitude. Only of procedures. Only of money.

And she never called me father-in-law. To her, I was always “Mr. Herrera.”

During the mass, Daniel did not say a word. He stared at the closed coffin as if he wanted to pry it open with the force of his eyes and make time give her back to me. When he heard Vanessa’s comment, his shoulders tensed. He glanced sideways at her. But he stayed silent. That had always been his problem: wanting to keep the peace even when peace cost him his dignity.

The ceremony ended. We went to the cemetery. They lowered the coffin. The flowers began to wilt under the sun. I stood motionless until the last shovelful of dirt fell and sounded like the dry slam of a door that would never open again.

I thought the worst was over.

I was wrong.

Before we left, attorney Tomás Córdova approached with his black briefcase and his usual serious face.

“Mr. Ricardo,” he said, “Mrs. Elena left very precise instructions. She wanted the will to be read today. With you, Daniel… and Vanessa present.”

Vanessa looked up instantly. It was only for a second, but I saw that hungry gleam in her eyes.

In the attorney’s office, it smelled like reheated coffee and old paper. Daniel sat down beside her. Vanessa crossed her legs, tapping her heel impatiently, looking at everything like someone entering a store and calculating how much each item costs.

Tomás opened the folder.

“This is the last will and testament of Elena Herrera.”

The first pages were calm: family memories, small bequests, donations, instructions for certain belongings. Vanessa feigned indifference, but I could see how she straightened up every time she heard the words “account,” “property,” or “trust.”

Then Tomás paused.

He pulled out a white envelope, sealed with Elena’s personal seal. He placed it on the desk and said:

“She asked that this letter be read before the rest. It is addressed to Daniel… and Vanessa.”

My son swallowed hard. Vanessa smiled.

Tomás opened the envelope.

He unfolded the sheet.

And when he read the first line, the color vanished from my daughter-in-law’s face, as if someone had switched off the light inside her.

PART 2