Cast Out at His Funeral, Reborn for Revenge

After my husband's funeral, his lawyer showed up at the door.

"Ms. Whitney, your husband signed this house over to the university before he died. You need to pack your things and be out as soon as possible."

My legs were bad. I begged him for a few more days—just long enough to gather my husband's paintings, the work he'd left behind.

"Ms. Whitney, it seems I haven't made myself clear."

"What your husband donated was this house and every valuable painting and piece of calligraphy in it."

"You may take your personal effects. Nothing else."