My Husband’s Mistress Wore My Missing Versace Dress To My Father’s Funeral. Sat In The Family Row. Held My Husband’s Hand. “I’m Practically Family Now,” She Announced. The Lawyer Began Reading The Will: “To My Daughter Diane, Who Called Me Yesterday About Her Husband’s Affair…” My Husband Went Pale. The Mistress Rained.

White calla lilies crowded the kitchen island, their heavy fragrance filling the air like a thick blanket of sorrow that refused to lift. I chose a simple black suit because black was safe, and I didn’t trust my shaky hands with anything delicate or bright.

St. Jude’s Basilica was cold and silent when I stepped inside, a cavernous space filled with the smell of beeswax and ancient stone. The pipe organ was already humming a low melody beneath the muffled sounds of shifting pews and quiet coughing.

Polished oxfords clicked against the marble floors as people found their seats, most of them men with loosened collars and women dabbing at red-rimmed eyes. My father had built a reputation across the state, and it seemed every person he had ever helped or defeated had come to pay their respects.

I paused in the back of the sanctuary just to catch my breath and steady my racing heart. At the front of the room, his mahogany casket sat beneath a massive arrangement of white orchids and blue irises.