Three Years After My Son Died, His Apartment Was Full of Strangers

My husband, Julius, had his arm around that woman, standing right beside her. The family portrait was dated November 18, 2023. Three days after my son's burial. Every piece of furniture in this apartment was something I'd picked out myself. But not a single trace of the life being lived here belonged to me. Before I'd gone back home, I'd seen Julius off to work at the door. The tie I'd knotted for him with my own hands hung on the coat rack. The vitamins I'd tucked into his bag, reminding him to take them every day, sat on the living room shelf. Yet in this entire apartment, there wasn't a single sign I'd ever existed. I sat down on the couch and forced my emotions into a tight knot. "How long have you been living here?" The woman started to answer, but the old lady grabbed her arm. "Pamela, if you have questions, take them up with Julius." The old woman called me by name. She knew exactly who I was. "I will ask him. But right now, I'm asking you." "Julius told us himself—he doesn't love you. The only reason he hasn't divorced you is because he pities you." The woman pulled the child closer, cradling him like a trophy, her eyes gleaming. "Your son is dead. You're old. You can't have any more children. Everything the James family has will belong to Myron." "When did you move in?" I asked again. She pointed at the family portrait. "You can see for yourself. That was taken right after I moved in. Our first photo together." Louis died on November 15. An accident. Three days. He couldn't even wait seven. He'd moved his mistress and his illegitimate child into the wedding apartment I'd prepared for my son. The woman's phone rang. She shouted into it like a drowning person calling for a lifeline. "Julius, she's here! She's sitting in the living room right now!" His voice on the other end turned frantic. "Wait for me. I'm coming back." This morning, before I'd started my trip back, I'd asked him if he had time to pick me up. His reply had been short. "Business trip. No time." Business trip. No time. So his business trips only applied to me. His time had never been mine to have. I stood and pointed to the spot in the center of the living room where the memorial tablet should have been. "What happened to what was here? Where did you put it?" The woman pointed a trembling finger toward the utility closet beside the bathroom. I dug through the clutter. My son's memorial tablet, his name carved into the wood, was buried beneath a pile of garbage. It had been snapped in two. A wooden splinter sliced across my palm. Blood welled up, but I didn't feel a thing. "Pamela, now that you know, why don't you do yourself a favor and bow out gracefully?" The woman wouldn't stop talking. "You're just some old woman. You have nothing left to offer Julius. Why keep him chained down with a marriage certificate?" Every word dripped with venom, thick with indignation—as though the one who'd seduced Julius and wrecked a marriage wasn't her, but me. I cradled the broken tablet against my chest and walked toward the door. "You don't get to say those things to me." I stopped in front of her and looked her dead in the eye. I raised my hand and wiped the blood from my palm. The front door slammed open with a bang. Julius burst in, gasping for air, sweat beading across his forehead. He must have taken the stairs all the way up to the sixth floor. "Pamela, you've gone too far!" He seized my wrist and squeezed. Hard. Then he saw the blood dripping from my palm. His grip loosened. He let go. And stepped back to shield the woman and the child behind him. "Beulah, go inside. I'll handle this." Beulah. Beulah Henson. So it was her. The scholarship student Julius had been sponsoring for ten years. Once the bedroom door clicked shut and he was satisfied that I posed no threat to Beulah and her family, Julius dropped his guard.

"Pamela, let me explain." I glared at him, clutching my son's memorial tablet to my chest as I headed for the door. I shook off his grip. Ignored him calling after me. I stepped into the elevator. Pressed the button for the lobby. The stale breath I'd been holding finally left my lungs. I needed his explanation. But not now. When I reached the ground floor, Julius hadn't followed. I sat in my car, forcing myself to breathe. No wonder Julius had never wanted me coming to the wedding apartment. He'd told me not to keep torturing myself with memories. To let go for my own sake, and for our son's. I'd taken his words to heart. When I missed my son, I'd just sit in the car downstairs for a while. Never going up. He hadn't been trying to spare me the grief. He'd been trying to keep me from discovering Beulah, hidden away inside my son's apartment. For the third anniversary of my son's passing, I'd originally wanted to keep things simple. But Julius said I should give our son a proper farewell. That only by letting go could I find peace in my remaining years. I did as he said. Today, I'd come here intending to take one last look at the apartment. To truly say goodbye to my son. I never expected what I'd find instead. My phone kept buzzing. Julius, calling over and over. I declined the calls. After a while, he seemed to lose patience. The calls stopped. Thirty-five years of marriage, and I had never once doubted him. Even our friends praised us as the perfect couple. After our son died, Julius worried I might do something rash. He took time off work specifically to stay by my side. Now it all made sense. That leave wasn't for me or our son. Beulah and her child had just moved into the apartment. He needed time to help them settle in. The text messages kept coming. "Pamela, let's sit down and talk about this. Don't do anything rash." "Beulah says if you don't make a scene, she's willing to let Myron call you his godmother." "Pamela, believe me. I had my reasons." Reasons. What reason could possibly justify moving his mistress and her illegitimate child into our son's apartment three days after the funeral? What reason could justify deceiving me so seamlessly, for so many years? Back at home, I looked at the family portrait hanging on the wall. All I felt was mockery. If I calculated backward from that child's age, then at the time Julius and I had posed for this photo with our son, the affair had already begun. I sank onto the couch and forced myself to think clearly. What I needed to determine was whether Beulah was merely occupying my son's apartment or whether she had actually taken ownership of it. I had paid the down payment on that apartment with my personal savings. After our son's accident, Julius pressured me into using the wrongful death settlement to pay off the remaining mortgage in one lump sum. I dug through our files, searching for the deed. I found it in a dusty box. Owner: Pamela Mason. Seeing my own name, I exhaled with relief. But even holding the deed, I still wasn't at ease. I called the property management office. "Hello, I'd like to confirm who's listed as the owner of unit 601." I heard the click of a keyboard on the other end. "One moment, ma'am. Let me pull that up." "The current resident of 601 is a Ms. Beulah Henson, and the registered owner is also Ms. Beulah Henson." The woman's voice hit me like a sledgehammer. "That's impossible. Are you sure there isn't a mistake?" A few seconds of silence. "One moment, ma'am. Let me double-check." "No, ma'am, the records are correct. Our system shows Ms. Beulah Henson as the owner. The title was transferred in December 2023. Ms. Henson holds full ownership of the property." Two sentences, and they shattered me. Less than a month after my son's death. The apartment I had bought with my own savings. The mortgage I had paid off with my son's settlement money.

It had quietly become that woman's property, right under my nose. I steadied myself. "Would you be able to provide me with the property transfer details?" "Ma'am, all we can see on our end is the date. For the specifics, you'll need to visit the county recorder's office." I hung up. My fingertips wouldn't stop trembling. December 2023. That was exactly when Julius had pressured me into paying off the mortgage. At the county recorder's office, I clutched the numbered ticket in my hand. Cold sweat seeped from my palms. That wedding apartment was the gift I'd prepared for my son. It was also, in the three years since Louis's death, the only thing I had left to hold on to. My plan had been simple. Get my emotions sorted out. Sell the apartment. Wait for Julius to retire. Then travel the world together. But now, the apartment wasn't mine. At least not legally. My name was no longer on the title. "Pamela, why didn't you tell me sooner?" Eleanor Dickerson looked at me with eyes full of heartache. "Don't be scared. You paid for that apartment. The mortgage was paid off with Louis's settlement money. That tramp can't take it from you." Even on the verge of sixty, Eleanor was still a firecracker. I'd thought it over again and again. I couldn't handle Julius on my own. She was the only one who could help me. When my number was called, Eleanor sat beside me at the window. "The title transfer procedure checks out. It has Ms. Pamela Mason's signature right here." I stared at a signature I had absolutely no memory of making. I froze. "Do you have the processing footage? I'd like to see it. I don't remember signing this." The clerk looked at me with an apologetic expression. "Surveillance footage is only kept for six months. Your transfer was too long ago." "You really don't recall? Right after the title transfer, you paid off the remaining mortgage in full. Four hundred and ninety thousand dollars. That's not a small amount." So I'd been right. Julius had used paying off the mortgage early as a cover. He'd gotten me to sign the title transfer documents at the same time. "Can it be reversed? I was deceived." The clerk shook her head with a helpless look. "Ma'am, you'd need to consult a lawyer. I can only process paperwork here." Eleanor held my arm as we walked out. "Don't worry. Vivian Abbott studied law. I've already contacted her." "Pamela, what are you going to do? Say you get the apartment back. Then what?" Outside, the wind picked up. Dark clouds swallowed the sliver of sun that had barely managed to peek through. "Divorce." "Are you sure?" Eleanor's eyes went wide with surprise. "I'm sure. Louis is gone. The apartment was stolen. The only thing left for me is divorce." "Okay. I'll help you." After going back to Eleanor's place, I calmed down and started gathering as much evidence as I could. I contacted the property management office. It was easy enough to get the surveillance footage of Julius and Beulah living together. In the footage, he was buckling Beulah's seatbelt for her, tender as could be. He was taking Myron to the playground downstairs, pushing him on the slide with a doting smile. So that was what his daily overtime had really been about. Rain or shine, never missing a day. All so he could go to our dead son's wedding apartment and play house with Beulah. "Pamela, Vivian's flight gets in tomorrow. She said you should check whether Beulah took anything else besides the apartment." Eleanor's words jolted me. After Julius and I got married, the two of us had a joint account at the bank where we deposited money for shared living expenses. Everything else, we managed separately. After Louis died, we stopped putting money into that joint account. Julius had wanted to close it. I refused. Beyond that, I knew he had a payroll account. He'd told me the password once. It was Louis's birthday. I re-downloaded the banking app for the joint account where we'd kept our shared funds. After I entered the account number and password, I froze. Louis's compensation had been $900,000. After paying off the $490,000 mortgage, I'd deposited the remaining $310,000 into this account. Before Louis's accident, I'd been putting $4,000 into it every month. The balance now read $0.35.