After Peter’s sudden death, I was drowning in grief, clinging to his memory and the life we’d built together. Three weeks later, my sister-in-law Miranda invited me over, saying she wanted to comfort me. I hoped for compassion, but instead, I was blindsided.

Over tea, Miranda asked what I planned to do with our baby fund — the money Peter and I had saved to start a family. “You won’t be having kids now,” she said, smiling. “Why not give it to us for my girls’ college fund?” Then she handed me a list of chores for her daughters, insisting it would “distract” me from my grief. I sat frozen, barely able to breathe.

Before I could respond, my mother-in-law, Susan, arrived unexpectedly. She had overheard everything from the open window. Turning to Miranda, she said firmly, “You will never see a dime of that money. You’ve used me for years, and now you’re trying to use Kate. That ends today.” Miranda turned red, sputtering excuses, but Susan didn’t back down.

I left in shock but with a strange sense of relief. Later, Miranda texted, blaming me for turning her mother against her. I didn’t reply. Sitting in Peter’s chair, I remembered his words: “Some people love you only when you’re useful. The rest love you because you’re you.” For the first time since losing him, I felt seen.