I sat alone that night, staring at old photos, feeling foolish. Betrayed. Made into a character in someone else’s carefully maintained lie. I was certain they would have taken this secret to their graves if I hadn’t uncovered it myself.

So I did what I thought was right. What I thought was fair.

I called my lawyer and removed the girl from my will.

When I told my son, my voice shook, but my resolve didn’t.

“That girl isn’t family,” I said. “She won’t get my legacy.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t yell. He just looked at me, smiled faintly—almost sadly—and said nothing.

That silence should have warned me.

Later that night, my phone rang. It was my lawyer. Her voice was careful, professional… and devastating.

My son had called her too.

He requested that his other two children—my biological grandchildren, twelve and eight—also be removed from my will. He told her they didn’t want a penny from me.

I felt my chest cave in.