My Dead Husband Is Another’s Perfect Man

Summary

Ten years after my husband's death, I took my son to a youth science competition.

There, a group of people pointed at him, calling him a fatherless bastard.

Just as I was about to rush over, the man on the judging panel beat me to it. He scooped up the other woman's little girl in his arms.

"Don't cry, Penny," he said softly. "Daddy's here."

I had listened to that exact voice for ten long years.

Everyone had told me he was dead. I had clung to a single black and white photograph, gave birth to his son, and dragged my failing body through nine years of poverty to raise our child alone.