After My Husband Died, My SIL Invited Me Over for ‘Support’ – But What She Really Wanted Shattered Me #8

People say grief hits you like a truck, but they’re wrong. A truck would be kinder, a truck would be over in seconds.

Grief is more like drowning in slow motion while everyone around you keeps breathing like it’s nothing.

Peter died three weeks ago in the middle of the night: silent, sudden, final. I fell asleep with his arm resting heavily over my side and his breath warm against the back of my neck.

The next morning, he was cold, and I was screaming at paramedics who couldn’t bring him back.

Pulmonary embolism, the doctor told me later. I remembered Peter complaining about an ache in his calf two days prior… I thought it was a sore muscle.

I searched deep vein thrombosis on Google afterward, and all the signs were there. How could I not have known? If I’d just sent him to the doctor, Peter would still be alive.

Have you ever felt your entire world collapse? Not just shake or crack, but completely implode? That’s what happened to me.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t eat either. I lay in our bed, curled around his pillow, and tried to remember how to breathe.

Peter had been my safe place since I was 17, my anchor, my home. Now I was just floating in space with nothing to hold onto.

That afternoon, my phone buzzed against the nightstand.

It was Miranda, my sister-in-law. Her voice sounded soft, careful.

“Kate? Honey, you shouldn’t be alone right now. Come over. I made tea.”

I wasn’t ready to face people, but she was family. This was her loss, too. It might be good to cry with someone and share our grief.

“Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

I pulled on leggings and Peter’s hoodie, the gray one that still smelled like his cologne and swallowed me whole.

My reflection in the hallway mirror looked like a ghost: pale, hollow-eyed, barely there. I stared at it for too long, thinking of the sudden sharpness of Peter’s death, and how things could’ve been different if I’d made him see a doctor.

How I wished with every piece of my broken heart that I could join him. Fresh tears sprang to my eyes as anger rushed through me, because how dare he go where I couldn’t follow him?

My phone chimed. Miranda again, texting to ask if I was still coming. I sent a message telling her I was on my way and forced myself out the front door.

Miranda opened the door and hugged me lightly. It felt stiff. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and meatloaf. Normal, life-goes-on smells that made my chest ache.

“I’m so glad you came,” she said, leading me to the living room. “Sit. The tea’s still hot.”

The tea was too sweet, but it soothed something raw in my throat. Miranda sat across from me, watching me like she had something important to say.

I braced myself for another “he’s in a better place” or “everything happens for a reason.”

Instead, she leaned forward, locking eyes with me, and said:

“What are you doing with the baby fund?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Peter’s gone now, so you won’t be having kids together. I have two girls, and you’ve always said how much you love them. Why won’t you just give the money to us? We could really use it for their college funds.”

The words didn’t compute.

I sat there, mug halfway to my lips, wondering if I’d misheard.

The baby fund. Peter and I set that account up three years ago to prepare to start a family. We’d been budgeting for hospital expenses and the cost of hiring someone to help with our newborn, as well as all the things a baby needed.

Now, it was just another broken dream. I hadn’t even thought of the money, but Miranda spoke like she’d already done the math.

“And actually,” she continued, not missing a beat, “you should help me with the girls this week. It’ll distract you from dwelling on everything.”

Before I could even open my mouth, she slid a piece of paper across the table. It was a list, written in her neat handwriting:

Pick up kids from school on Tuesday and Thursday

Help Emma with her math homework

Draw pictures for Lily’s art project

Bake cookies for the school fundraiser

“Better than just sitting around crying, right?” Miranda said, her voice bright and cheerful, like she was doing me some incredible favor.

The words blurred together as I stared at the list. I could barely get out of bed, could barely remember to eat, and she wanted me to… bake cookies? Help with homework? Be responsible for her children when I couldn’t even take care of myself?

And that on top of asking for our money. Peter’s and mine.

“Miranda, I don’t think—”

My voice cracked, and tears started falling before I could stop them. Not the pretty, single-tear kind you see in movies. The ugly, body-shaking kind that makes your nose run and your chest heave.

Miranda waved her hand like she was swatting a fly.

“Oh, come on. We don’t need to dwell on him. You need to move forward, Kate, and this is how you do it.”

Move forward? I stared at her. Peter had been torn away from me… the memory of his cold skin and the terrifying realization that he wasn’t breathing haunted me every second of the day, and she wanted me to move forward?

My mouth opened, finally ready to say something, when there was a sharp knock at the front door.

Miranda huffed, annoyed. “Probably another delivery driver who can’t read house numbers.”

She got up, smoothing her hair, muttering under her breath about incompetent people. But when she opened the door, it wasn’t a delivery driver.

My mother-in-law, Susan, swept into the room with a fierce look on her face.

Then she stalked toward her daughter and stared her down.

“Miranda, you will never see a dime of that money.”

Miranda’s face went slack. “Mom? What are you—”

“I thought I’d drop by on my way to the store. Your front windows are open.” Susan nodded at the window behind me. “I heard everything.”

“You may be my daughter, but I won’t stay silent about this. You’ve used me to watch your kids for years, and now you’re using your late brother’s wife for money and childcare? What is wrong with you?”

Miranda’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Her cheeks turned blotchy red. “What? Mom, I was just trying to help!”

“No, you were trying to help yourself, as usual. I’m done, Miranda. This was the last straw. Don’t ask Kate for anything again.”

“You always take her side!” Miranda roared. “God! She’s wallowing, Mom. She needs to—”

Susan cut her off, voice firm and cold as winter. “She’s mourning, and she needs to work through that at her own pace. What you did today was cruel, and I won’t stand for it.”

She turned to me, her voice gentling. “Go home, sweetheart. I’ll handle this.”

I nodded, barely managing to whisper “thank you” before slipping out the door.

I drove home in silence, heart pounding, hands shaking on the wheel. Miranda had always been a bit self-centered, but I’d never expected her to blindside me with something like this. And Susan standing up for me?

We’d always gotten along well enough, but Susan wasn’t exactly warm.

Peter had always said that she’d changed after their father died. He and Miranda were teenagers at the time… how much worse that must’ve been, to lose your husband and not be able to fall apart, to still have to care for your grieving kids.

I let out a sigh and resolved to call Susan later.

That evening, as I sat in Peter’s chair with a cup of cold coffee, my phone chimed.

It was a text from Miranda: Thanks for turning my own mother against me. I hope you’re happy. And next time, maybe don’t make everything about you.

I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen as I considered how to respond.

But I had nothing to say to her. I deleted the message and set my phone to silent.

I was still broken, still drowning, but I finally understood something Peter used to tell me all the time (usually when I was worried about disappointing someone):

“Some people love you only when you’re useful, Kate. The rest? They love you because you’re you.”

Susan loved me not because I could do something for her, but because she knew my pain, because I belonged to her son, and now I belonged to her too.