e was holding a basket of vegetables and looked surprised to see me.

“Aunt Emma,” she said with a smile.

“How are you?”

I hesitated. “I’ve been better.”

Her smile faded. “It’s about the grave, isn’t it?

Mom told me what happened.”

I swallowed hard. “Carly, did you know… about your mom and Owen?”

She frowned, looking puzzled. “Know what?”

“She said they… had an affair,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Carly’s eyes widened in shock.

“What? No. She never said anything like that to me.”

“She claims it lasted five years.

That he promised her money, but—” My voice broke, and I stopped.

Carly’s expression shifted to something between confusion and disbelief. “Wait. Mom told you that?

She’s never mentioned anything about an affair. Ever. Honestly, Aunt Emma, that doesn’t sound like Uncle Owen at all.”

I stared at her.

“Are you sure? She seemed so… certain. She said he lied to both of us.”

Carly sighed.

“Mom’s been angry for years, Aunt Emma. You know that. She always said you had everything — a perfect family, a good husband, stability.

She feels like she got stuck with the short end of the stick.”

“She’s jealous?” I asked, feeling a pang of guilt.

Carly nodded. “It’s not fair, but yeah. That’s how she sees it.

But I never saw anything between her and Uncle Owen. Not once. And if something had been going on, I feel like I would’ve noticed.”

I bit my lip.

“You’re sure?”

Carly nodded firmly. “Absolutely. Mom might be saying this just to hurt you.

I hate to say it, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

I stared at her, unsure whether to feel relieved or more confused.

Carly placed a hand on my arm. “You loved Uncle Owen, didn’t you?”

I nodded, my throat tightening.

“Then hold onto that,” she said gently. “Don’t let Mom take that away from you.”

Later that evening, I sat in my living room, staring at an old photo of Owen and me.

He was smiling, his arm draped around my shoulders. We looked so happy.

Maybe Madison was lying. Maybe she wasn’t.

I would never know for sure. But I couldn’t let her bitterness destroy my memories of Owen.

I thought about our kids, how much they adored their father. They deserved to remember him as the man who loved them, not as the person Madison was trying to paint him to be.

I wiped away a tear and took a deep breath.

“Goodbye, Madison,” I whispered to myself.

“You’re not taking him from me.”

The next Sunday, I went back to the cemetery. I brought fresh flowers and placed them by Owen’s grave. The air was still and quiet, and for the first time in months, I felt at peace.