Our son was born when Harold had already turned eighty one years old, and I will never forget the way he held the baby in his arms as if he were holding the most extraordinary miracle of his life. His joy lasted only a short time because one peaceful night a year later he passed away quietly in his sleep while the soft light from the patio filtered through the curtains.
I believed the hardest part would be learning to live without him, yet I soon discovered that grief was only the beginning of a different battle.
Three weeks after the funeral three men knocked firmly on my door. They were Harold’s nephews, men who rarely visited him while he was alive but suddenly remembered their family connection once they smelled the possibility of inheritance.
“We came for the house,” the oldest nephew said bluntly.
“It does not belong to you,” I replied calmly even though my heart beat faster.
“That marriage was fake and we will challenge the will,” another one added while staring at the baby sleeping in the crib beside the sofa.