After I dropped my wife off at the airport for her wellness retreat, my twelve-year-old granddaughter whispered, “Grandpa… We can’t go home. I heard grandma talking about money and making it look natural.” so we hid. Twenty minutes later, I froze… When I discovered…

The probate issue was worse. Margaret’s attorney attempted to argue that because Margaret and I were still legally married at the time of her arrest, she retained certain rights to shared assets and could claim “spousal interest” in the home and accounts.

Sharon’s response was surgical.

“She attempted to murder him for financial gain,” Sharon said in court. “Any equitable interest is voided by her criminal conduct.”

The judge didn’t even blink. “Denied,” he said, as if swatting away a fly.

Margaret’s relatives tried next. A sister I hadn’t seen in twenty years filed a petition claiming Margaret was “mentally unwell” and should be moved to a psychiatric facility instead of prison, a strategy designed to shorten consequences and open the door for civil claims later.

Detective Morrison testified. Calm, firm, outlining the planning, the concealment, the dosage strategy, the financial motive. The recordings played again. Margaret’s own voice, laughing about my death.

The petition died in the courtroom.

Afterward, Detective Morrison found me in the hallway. “You okay?” she asked.

I surprised myself by answering honestly. “I don’t know,” I said.