“Mom,” he told me over coffee in that tiny kitchen, “I want to add rooms, build a porch, maybe even put up a swing set in the backyard. I’ll even make you a room over the garage, too.” I was so proud of him, and because this was such a big milestone, he’d drawn up a simple will, just in case. If anything were to happen to him, the house would go to Emma. But before his dreams could unfold, a construction accident took his life. Emma was only two years old.

At the funeral, I clutched Emma’s small hand while Melissa greeted people as coldly