IN LOVE WITH MY BROTHER IN-LAW, THE WIDOW CLAUSE

My husband was dead. Yet, six months later, I stood in the kitchen, holding a note that I had found in my son’s homework. The handwriting was unmistakably his. If anything happens to me, do not trust Liam. Confusion swept over me, my fingers trembling as I held the note. For a second I wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it was. Someone who knew I had lost my husband wanted to play a prank on me. But then an uneasy feeling settled into the pit of my stomach. For the last few weeks, I had been receiving anonymous threats written in what seemed to be blood. I had been paranoid and finally told the police yesterday. But, of course, they didn’t take it seriously. “You’re next if you don’t tread carefully.” Was the last one— which, by the way, happened to be this morning. And now a note from my dead husband. How was my brother-in-law involved in this if my husband died in an accident? Was he involved with the threats? I hadn’t even spoken to the family since the death. They had always been cruel to me, so after the funeral, I cut them off. “Mom!” my son called out excitedly, running into the kitchen with a stack of envelopes in his tiny arms. “I helped you bring in the mail!” “Thanks, love,” I said, forcing a smile. “Drop them over there.” “Mommy? What’s that?” he asked, trying to get on the counter. “Nothing.” I smiled hastily and squeezed the paper in my hands. “It’s late. You should go to bed.” He pouted and folded his arms, making me smile wryly. Danny looked so much like his dad that it hurt. At the same time, it was a relief. If my husband wasn’t here, at least Danny was. “It’s still early and you said—” “No buts,” I said firmly. “I’ll come in to read you a story soon. Okay?” “Okay, Mom.” I watched him as he walked away—still sulking, and then turned back to the counter, my elbow knocking on the stack of mail that had been dropped. “s**t,” I heaved, squatting to pick them up. My eyes caught sight of a paper with urgent writing on it. I did not have to be told that it was a notice from the landlord. Still, I picked it up and opened it. I was behind on rent, and it was a reminder I was going to be kicked out. Just as I was about to put the note down, my phone beeped in my pocket continuously. I pulled it out, furrowing my brows at the strange number. I picked up the call, and a bank debt officer began speaking rapidly and rudely, reminding me about the loan I had acquired. “Yes, I’m aware,” I replied, placing my hand on my forehead. “I just need a bit more time.” They didn’t care one bit. It was even funny that he was calling at such an hour. When the call ended, I stood there for a long moment, the phone slipping from my hand onto the counter. I picked it up again, absentmindedly scrolling through it for my landlord’s number. Maybe if I explained, he would sympathize with me. The line rang as I tapped it, and a strange voice called through. “Elena?” I gasped, in shock, realizing I had clicked on Liam’s number instead. The phone clattered to the ground. I scrambled after it with the intention of cutting the call, but I only managed to hit my head on the tile. “Hello?” the voice called through the line again. “Are you okay?” I finally picked it up, rubbing my head as I felt dizzy. The phone fell again, and the screen went blank. “s**t!” I cursed, feeling annoyed and overwhelmed by the whole thing. I tried tapping the phone continually to cut the call because I could still hear background noise. Eventually, the line went dead. Heaving a sigh of relief, I stood up. The last thing I wanted to do was relate with any member of the Hartwell family. Right from time, I had always known that they never liked me. I hadn’t even spoken to Liam much since the wedding. Half a year had passed since my husband died, and I had forced myself to cling to what was logical. The incident occurred unexpectedly in the same way the burial was hurried. Liam had not even been there, as if it didn’t matter to him. His parents, who were there, had looked past me as if I wasn’t meant to be with them. They always disliked that the wedding was modest. Other than the fact that they never liked my background, they hated that we wanted to keep everything quiet and didn’t make much public appearance, and it seemed like they never truly forgave me for that. Perhaps that was the reason I isolated myself after the funeral. After all, I had no reason to remain near people who acted as if I wasn’t ever part of the family at all. They did not assist with anything since my husband died or even ask if I needed help. I didn’t care about that, but it hurt that they didn’t care about my son’s existence. I had been stripped away from his will as well by his parents. I walked to my son’s room and looked at him sleeping, his small hand curled by his cheek. He looked peaceful. I wished I felt the same way. I touched his hair, then stepped back and closed the door. I went back to the living room and then sank to the floor beside the couch, pulling my knees close. I didn’t cry often anymore because I didn’t have the time or strength for it. But tonight, everything felt like too much. Just then, a knock sounded at the door. I froze. It was late at night, and no one ever visited us, and I didn’t expect anyone. I wiped my face and stood, moving slowly toward the door. My hand shook as I opened it. Liam stood there.