A month after my husband Alden, 42, died unexpectedly, his phone notified me of a hotel charge made minutes earlier. Shocked, I drove to the hotel. En route, his phone rang—caller ID showed “Marlon – Work,” his boss. Unable to answer, I arrived and learned he was in Room 403. No one answered my knocks. A teenage cleaner revealed Alden had been there recently with a blonde woman, despite being “dead.” His phone showed a search: “What happens if you fake your death?” I discovered a large life insurance payout to a joint account I didn’t open.

The girl said he checked in as Carter Verner—his middle name. Realizing he faked his death for the insurance money, I reported identity fraud. Police arrested him days later with a former coworker across state lines. He’d forged a death certificate, planning to flee to Belize, leaving me and our son nothing. In court, he claimed it wasn’t about abandoning me. I sold our house, moved near my sister, and started over with my son. The betrayal was shattering, but seeing the truth was freeing, clearing space for a better life.