Clara’s lake cabin.

The only property she had left solely to me in her original will.

“Why would he think that?” I asked.

Michael avoided my gaze and lifted one shoulder.

“I might have mentioned we were considering it. For a fresh start.”

“You mentioned selling my cabin to a real estate agent,” I said.

My voice sounded colder than I intended.

He turned toward me, and for the briefest moment, something cruel surfaced in his expression.

Then it vanished behind the familiar mask.

“Our cabin, honey. We’re married now. And I only floated the idea. Don’t be difficult.”

Don’t be difficult.

I smiled and said I was exhausted.

“Sunday will be lovely,” I added. “Everyone’s coming.”

“Your mother. Your brother. My kids. It’s time.”

He blinked twice before giving a slow nod.

“That sounds nice, Evelyn. Really nice.”

He barely slept that night.

I felt him lying awake beside me, staring into the darkness and calculating.

On Sunday morning, I phoned the lawyer once more.

“Bring your copy of the will,” I said. “And the original delivery instructions.”

“Are you certain, Evelyn?”

“I’m certain.”

After ending the call, I studied my reflection in the hallway mirror.

For once, Clara was not the woman looking back at me.

I saw myself—a woman who had finally discovered what her twin had understood long before.

When the doorbell began ringing and our relatives entered the house, I drew in a long breath.

I was prepared to destroy my seven-day marriage completely.

The candle flames trembled as I placed the wooden box beside Michael’s plate.

His fork stopped halfway to his lips.

“What is this, Evelyn?”

My son leaned closer while Michael lifted the lid.

Michael’s mother lowered her wineglass.

“Those are bank statements,” I said calmly. “Sixty-three thousand in debt. Loans Clara discovered two months before she died.”

The color disappeared from Michael’s face.

“Then explain the note,” I said, pushing Clara’s folded letter toward him. “Read it out loud, Michael. Read what my sister wrote about you.”

He could not do it.

His mother seized the letter and began reading it herself.

Her voice broke when she reached the words: ‘He wanted caretakers, not partners.’

“Evelyn, please,” Michael whispered. “I loved her. I love you.”

“It’s what Clara would have wanted!” he burst out. “She would have wanted someone to take care of me.”