When my wife passed away, her wealthy boss called me and said, “Booker, I found something. Come to my office right now.” Then he added, “Do not tell your son or your daughter-in-law. You could be in grave danger.” When I got there and saw who was standing at the door, I froze. My blood turned to ice, and I realized my wife did not just die—she was taken from me.
But before I tell you what I found in that office, you need to understand how the day of her funeral became the day my own son declared war on me.
My name is Booker King, and I am 72 years old. I spent 40 years managing logistics in a warehouse, and before that I carried a rifle for this country. I know how to read a room, and I know when a storm is coming. But nothing prepared me for the storm that walked into St. Jude’s Baptist Church that humid Tuesday morning.
I sat in the front pew, staring at the mahogany casket that held Esther—my Esther. We had been married for 45 years. She was a small woman with hands roughened by work, but a heart that could hold the world.
For three decades, she had worked as the head housekeeper and personal assistant to Alistister Thorne, a man with more money than God, but who trusted only one person with his life—and that was my wife.
The organ music was soft, a low hum that vibrated in my chest. The church was filling up with neighbors, people from the choir, and even some of Mr. Thorne’s staff. Everyone was whispering in respectful low tones. Everyone except the two people who should have been sitting right next to me.
My son Terrence and his wife Tiffany were late. Not five minutes late—forty minutes late.
The service had already begun when the heavy oak doors at the back of the sanctuary banged open. I did not turn around, but I did not have to. I heard the sharp clack of high heels against the stone floor, echoing too loudly for a place like this.
Heads turned. I could feel the collective intake of breath from the congregation.
I kept my eyes fixed on the flowers atop Esther’s casket—white lilies, her favorite.
Then I smelled them before I saw them: a cloud of expensive, cloying perfume that smelled like desperation and money, mixed with the stale scent of cigarettes.
Terrence slid into the pew beside me. He was wearing a bright cream-colored suit that looked like something meant for a nightclub, not a son at his mother’s funeral. He did not touch my shoulder. He did not squeeze my hand. He did not even look at the casket.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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