During my husband’s funeral, my phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number: “I’m alive. Beware of the children.” At first, I assumed it was some cruel prank.

Standing beside the mound of freshly turned soil—forty-two years of my life about to be buried beneath it – my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number sliced through my grief like a blade.

I’m alive. I’m not the one in the coffin.

My already-broken world dissolved completely. My hands shook so violently I could barely type a response.

Who are you?

The answer came quickly:

I can’t say. They’re watching me. Don’t trust our children.

My gaze shifted to Charles and Henry, my sons, who stood near the coffin with an unnatural calm. Their tears were stiff, their embraces cold as the November wind. Something was terribly wrong. In that instant, everything I thought I knew about my life cracked open, revealing a truth I had been blind to. Continue reading…