At my daughter’s funeral, her husband pointed at their two little girls and announced that foster care could raise them because he deserved a fresh start with his new fiancée. Then the older child opened one of the suitcases he had packed—and handed me the care binder her mother had prepared before she died.

The following Saturday, Richard and I drove to the rental house in Dublin where Molly and Derek had lived for the past four years.

Under the terms of the emergency custody order, I was granted temporary access to the residence to collect Nora and Sadie’s remaining belongings, clothing, toys, and personal effects.

Derek was not permitted to be present. The court had mandated that he remain off the premises between 10:00 AM and 2:00 PM while we cleared out the children’s bedrooms.

When I unlocked the front door with the spare key Molly had given me months ago, the house smelled stale, like cold takeout food and unwashed laundry.

The living room was in chaos. Packing boxes were scattered everywhere, half-filled with kitchen appliances and home decor. Derek was clearly preparing to break the lease early and move into Kelsey's apartment—or whatever new place he was renting now that Kelsey had dumped him.

"Let's focus on the girls' rooms first," Richard said, holding a stack of heavy-duty cardboard boxes.

We walked down the carpeted hallway to the girls' bedroom. It was painted a soft lavender, with framed watercolor prints of animals on the walls that Molly had painted during her pregnancy.

Seeing her handwriting on the labels inside the closet—Nora’s Winter Coats, Sadie’s 3T Clothes—felt like a physical punch to my chest. I had to lean against the doorframe for a moment, pressing my palm against my eyes to stop the sudden, violent surge of grief.

"Take your time, Evie," Richard said softly from the doorway.

"No," I choked out, wiping my face with the back of my sleeve. "We don't have time. We have four hours."

For two hours, we packed clothes, shoes, bedtime books, and their favorite toys. We packed the wooden dollhouse my father had built for Nora before he passed away, and the little nightlight that projected stars onto the ceiling.

At 12:30 PM, I went into the master bedroom to check if Molly had left any personal items—her jewelry box, her journals, or photo albums that belonged to the girls.

The room was stripped bare. The bed was unmade, and the closet was half-empty.

In the corner of the closet sat a gray metal filing cabinet. It was locked.

"Richard," I called out. "Do you have a crowbar in your truck?"

Five minutes later, Richard pried open the top drawer of the cabinet with a loud, metallic crunch.

Inside were medical files, tax folders, and legal documents.

I began pulling out the folders, searching for Molly’s personal journals. Near the back of the bottom drawer, my hand hit something hard—a black leather binder, separate from the blue one Nora had given me.

I pulled it out and opened it on the unmade bed.

It was Derek’s personal financial logbook.

Inside were printed emails, text messages, and bank transfer receipts dating back two full years.

As I scanned the pages, my breath caught in my throat.

Derek hadn't just been cheating on Molly and spending her disability money.

He had taken out three separate personal loans in Molly's name—forging her signature on digital application forms while she was hospitalized—totaling over $60,000.

And the recipient of those funds wasn't just Kelsey.

The receipts showed direct payments to an online gambling portal and an offshore brokerage account registered in the Cayman Islands.

Derek wasn't just overwhelmed or selfish.

He was deeply, dangerously in debt, broke, and desperately using his dying wife's identity to keep himself from financial ruin.

"Richard," I whispered, my hand shaking as I held a forged loan document from last August. "Look at this."

Richard leaned over my shoulder, reading the signature line where Molly Vance had been signed in a shaky, awkward script that looked nothing like my daughter's elegant penmanship.

"This isn't just civil fraud," Richard said, his voice dropping into a dangerous hush. "This is felony identity theft and loan fraud."