I sat down on the bed, the weight of what I had discovered pressing down on me. I had loved Ashley like my own daughter, had welcomed her into our family with open arms. And yet, here was irrefutable proof of her betrayal, hidden in the folds of a blanket meant to keep my granddaughter warm and safe.

I knew I had to act, but I was torn. How could I confront Ashley without destroying whatever semblance of normalcy Isabella had left? Yet, how could I let this deception continue, knowing that my son’s death might not have been the accident we believed it to be?

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm within. I needed more information, needed to be absolutely certain before taking this to the authorities. I transferred the data from the phone to my computer, ensuring that I had copies of everything. The truth needed to be revealed, but it had to be done carefully, for Isabella’s sake.

The days that followed were a blur of secretive meetings and cautious inquiries. I reached out to a private investigator, someone trustworthy, who could dig deeper and find out the truth about Matthew’s death. I knew this was just the beginning of a long journey, one that would likely bring more pain before any healing could begin.

But as I lay in bed that night, clutching Isabella’s blanket, I realized that sometimes love meant facing the darkness to bring back the light. The memories of my son and husband were too precious to be tainted by lies. I owed it to them, to Isabella, and even to Ashley, to uncover the truth, no matter how painful it might be.