Three months ago, I lost Adam, my husband of eleven years, to a sudden aneurysm. Just days after his funeral, I dragged myself to my nephew Lucas’s first birthday party, where my sister Cassandra dropped a bomb. She announced that Lucas was actually Adam’s son, showing everyone a will, claiming half of my $800,000 house. What she did not know was why I could barely hold back my laughter.

If you are watching this from somewhere where family drama hits close to home, take a moment to like and subscribe. Trust me, you will want to hear how I handled what came next.

Adam and I met twelve years ago at a charity auction benefiting children with cancer. I was volunteering, helping organize the silent auction items, when he outbid everyone else for a painting I had been admiring all night. It was a watercolor of the Boston skyline at sunset—vibrant oranges and purples bleeding into the harbor. After winning, he walked straight over to me and handed it over.

“I noticed you looking at this all night,” he said with a smile that made his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “I think it belongs with you.”