The doorbell rings, just days after my beloved husband's sudden death. I don't recognize the woman on our doorstep, with her buttery blonde highlights, a diamond bracelet identical to my own and a bouncing baby boy in her arms. As I show her inside, I notice her eyes grow wide as she takes in our spacious hallway, and the big squashy sofas that we all used to pile on. She glances at the silver-framed family photos and my little daughter hiding behind my skirts. She looks at me, her blue eyes serious. "I'm sorry" she says. "I know this will be hard to hear. But I am your husband's girlfriend. And this is his son." My world implodes. And then she tells me that she owns our home -- and that she's not going anywhere.
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