At my father’s funeral, emotions were high—grief, loss, quiet reflection. But then my stepmother, Vivian, arrived in a white dress with her four adult children dressed like they were going to a summer brunch. While the rest of us mourned in black, she claimed my father had asked them to wear white. I was angry and skeptical, but before I could say more, she pulled out a letter she said was from him.

As the service began, Vivian and her kids took the front row, acting like royalty. Whispers rippled through the room. Then Dad’s lifelong friend Joe stepped up, holding another letter—one my father had given him before he passed. The tension shifted immediately. Joe said Dad had written it to be read “only if the truth needed revealing.”

In the letter, Dad wrote that Vivian and her children had disappeared during his illness—except when they needed money. Worse, they’d been stealing from him. He confessed that he’d told them to wear white so they’d stand out for what they really were. You could see the smugness drain from Vivian’s face as the truth unfolded in front of everyone.

Joe calmly told them to leave—and they did, humiliated and silent. The mood in the room lightened. We shared stories, cried, laughed, and celebrated the man we truly knew. My dad may have passed, but with one last letter, he made sure he had the final say—and justice.