Don’t be stubborn,” Henry cut in with a harshness I had never seen from him before. “You’re old now. You can’t keep living in the past.” That night, after they left, Ernest and I stayed up talking until dawn. For the first time in our marriage, we discussed the possibility that our sons were not the people we thought we had raised.

“Something’s wrong, Margot,” my husband said to me with a look of worry I had never seen in his eyes. This isn’t just ambition or impatience. There’s something darker behind all this pressure. I had no idea how profoundly correct his words were. I couldn’t imagine that my own sons were planning something that would change our lives forever.

I didn’t know that the tragedy that was coming wouldn’t be an accident of fate, but a conspiracy carefully orchestrated by the two people I trusted most in the world. The last normal conversation I had with Charles was 3 weeks before Ernest’s death. He came alone without Jasmine and looked more serious than usual. “Mom,” he said, sitting at the kitchen table where he had eaten breakfast so many times as a boy.

“I want you to know that no matter what happens, Henry and I will always take care of you.” His words soothed me at the time, but now remembering them beside Ernest’s grave, they send a shiver down my spine. Why did he say no matter what happens? What did he know that I didn’t? The accident that changed everything happened on a Tuesday morning.

Ernest had left early for the shop, as he had done every day for more than 40 years. I was in the kitchen preparing his favorite lunch, meatloaf, and mashed potatoes when the phone rang with an urgency that sent a chill through me. “Mrs. Hayes?” a voice I didn’t know asked. “I’m calling from Memorial Hospital. Your husband has been in a serious accident.

You need to come immediately.” The words blurred in my mind like ink and water. The world stopped. My legs turned to jelly, and I had to grab the door frame to keep from falling. What happened? Is he okay? Is he alive? Is he in the ICU? Ma’am, please come as soon as possible. The trip to the hospital was a hazy nightmare. My neighbor, Doris, had to drive me because I was shaking so much I couldn’t even hold the keys.

The whole way there, my mind refused to process what was happening. Ernest was careful, meticulous in his work. How could this have happened? When we got to the hospital, Charles and Henry were already there. That surprised me because no one had notified them yet. At least not me. But in my desperation, I didn’t pay attention to that detail.

Mom, Charles said, hugging me with a force that seemed genuine. Dad is in bad shape. The doctors say one of the machines at the shop exploded. He has severe burns and a traumatic brain injury. Henry’s eyes were red, but something in his expression felt off. He seemed more nervous than sad, like someone waiting for important news rather than someone suffering for his father. “Can we see him?” I asked, desperate.

“Only immediate family, one at a time, and for 5 minutes max,” the nurse explained. When I entered that ICU room, my heart sank. Ernest was hooked up to a dozen machines with bandages covering most of his face and arms. I barely recognized him. His breathing was labored, artificial, kept going by machines that beeped constantly.

I walked up to his bed and took his hand, the only part of his body that seemed intact. Earnest, my love, I’m here. Everything is going to be all right. You’re going to recover just like you always do. For a moment, I felt a slight squeeze in my hand. His eyes moved behind his closed lids. He was fighting.

My warrior was fighting to get back to me. The next 3 days were the longest of my life. I practically lived at the hospital, sleeping in the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room. Charles and Henry took turns accompanying me, but they always seemed more interested in talking to the doctors than in comforting their father.

I overheard fragmented conversations that I couldn’t fully understand at the time. Henry asked about medical insurance, about the cost of treatment. Charles was on the phone talking about life insurance policies and beneficiaries. Mom, Charles said to me on the second day, we reviewed Dad’s insurance.

He has a life insurance policy for $50,000. There’s also a workers comp policy that could cover up to 75,000 more. Why was he talking to me about money when Ernest was still fighting for his life? Why was he worried about insurance instead of his father’s recovery? I don’t care about the money, I responded harshly. I just want your dad to get better.