The snow began to fall just as the first shovel of earth hit the mahogany casket. It wasn’t the gentle, cinematic snow you see in Hallmark movies; it was a gritty, biting sleet that swirled off the Hudson River and cut through the wool coats of the mourners gathering in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.
My name is Alberta. I am sixty-four years old, and on December 23rd, two days before Christmas, I buried Richard, the man I had loved for thirty-eight years.
Standing by the open grave, I adjusted my black leather gloves and kept my face impassive. People kept coming up to me—business partners in cashmere scarves, distant cousins shivering in the wind—squeezing my shoulder and murmuring the same tired scripts.
“You’re so strong, Alberta.”
“Richard took such good care of you.”
“At least you have the children to lean on.”
I nodded politely, a frozen smile fixed on my face. They saw a grieving widow in a sensible navy coat. They saw the “second wife”—the former secretary Richard had married three years after his divorce—and assumed I was merely the caretaker of his twilight years. They assumed I was lucky to be there at all.
Standing ten feet away, huddled under a massive black umbrella, was the “real” family.
My stepson, James, forty-two and looking perpetually bored. My stepdaughter, Caroline, checking her watch. And leading the pack, my daughter-in-law, Vanessa. Vanessa was wearing a black mink coat that cost more than my father’s entire pension. She was crying loudly, dabbing at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief, performing grief for the audience.
She hadn’t visited Richard once during his six-month battle with pancreatic cancer. Not once. But here, in front of the cameras and the society pages photographers, she was the picture of devastation.
I caught her eye across the grave. She didn’t offer a sad smile. She offered a glare—sharp, predatory, and impatient. It was the look of a vulture waiting for the lion to finally stop breathing.
The wake was held at our home in Scarsdale, a sprawling colonial estate nestled among ancient oak trees. The house was decorated for Christmas, a task I had completed alone while Richard slept in the hospice bed in the library. Garlands of fresh pine wrapped around the banisters, and a twelve-foot Fraser Fir stood in the great room, shimmering with gold and silver ornaments.
The house smelled of mulled wine and expensive catering. I spent the afternoon drifting through the rooms, ensuring glasses were full, accepting condolences, and feeling like a ghost in my own home.
By 7:00 PM, the last guest—a weeping aunt who had tried to steal a silver spoon—had finally left. The house fell silent, save for the crackling of the logs in the fireplace and the low hum of O Holy Night playing on the stereo system.
I retreated to the kitchen. It was my sanctuary. I turned on the warm yellow pendant lights and began rinsing the crystal eggnog glasses. The warm water felt good on my aching hands.
I heard the click-clack of heels on the hardwood floor. It wasn’t a tentative approach; it was a march.
“Alberta.”
I turned off the tap and dried my hands on a tea towel embroidered with holly berries. Vanessa stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her mink coat. James and Caroline stood behind her, looking at the floor, clearly having been bullied into this confrontation.
“Vanessa,” I said softly. “Would you like some tea? It’s freezing outside.”
“Cut the act, Alberta,” Vanessa snapped. Her voice was sharp, shattering the holiday peace. “We need to talk. Now.”
She walked into the kitchen and tossed a set of keys onto the marble island. They were the keys to Richard’s study.
“We’ve been talking,” Vanessa said, gesturing to the silent siblings behind her. “And we need to be realistic about the future. This house… it’s a monster. It’s four million dollars of equity sitting here, and the market in Westchester is hot right now.”
She picked up a Christmas cookie from a platter, looked at it with disgust, and dropped it back down.
“We have families to think about. Private school tuitions. The Hamptons rental. Richard would have wanted his children to enjoy his legacy, not have it tied up in upkeep for one person.”
She took a step closer, her perfume—something heavy and floral—cloying in the air.
“Pack your bags, Alberta,” she said. “That old woman act isn’t going to work on us. You’re not staying here. We’ve already called a realtor. We want the listing live by New Year’s Day. You have forty-eight hours to vacate.”
James finally looked up. “It’s for the best, Alberta. You can’t manage the stairs. We found a nice assisted living facility in Florida. It’s… affordable.”
I looked at them. I looked at the kitchen I had renovated ten years ago. I looked at the spot where Richard used to sit, drinking his coffee and doing the crossword puzzle while I managed the accounts.
They didn’t see me. They saw an obstacle. They saw a squatter. They saw a line item that needed to be deleted so they could access the bank accounts they believed were waiting for them.
My heart hammered in my chest, a mix of grief and sudden, cold fury. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them how I had wiped their father’s brow, how I had managed his panic attacks, how I had saved this family from ruin a decade ago.
But I didn’t. I had learned a long time ago that in business, and in war, you never show your hand until the contract is on the table.
I folded the tea towel neatly. I placed it on the counter. I looked Vanessa dead in the eye.
“All right,” I said.
Vanessa blinked, clearly surprised by the lack of a fight. A smirk curled her red lips. She turned to James. “See? I told you she’d fold. She knows she has no claim.”
“The reading of the will is tomorrow morning,” I said, my voice steady. “Christmas Eve. 9:00 AM. At the city office.”
“We’ll be there,” Vanessa sneered. “Have your boxes ready when we get back. We’re changing the locks at noon.”
They turned and left, sweeping out of the house to their waiting car, leaving me alone in the silence of the Christmas lights.
The next morning, New York City was a blinding masterpiece of white. The storm had passed, leaving the skyscrapers capped in snow, the streets slushy but bright.
I took the train into the city. I didn’t take the limousine service. I wanted the time to think. I wore my best suit—a charcoal Chanel number that Richard had bought me for our 25th anniversary—and my pearl earrings.
I arrived at 5th Avenue at 8:45 AM. The sidewalks were packed with last-minute Christmas shoppers, tourists gawking at the Saks Fifth Avenue window displays, and street vendors selling roasted chestnuts.
I stopped in front of Number 740.
It was an Art Deco masterpiece. Forty stories of steel, glass, and stone, rising like a needle into the crisp blue sky. The Van Der Hoven Building. Or so everyone called it.
I walked through the revolving brass doors. The lobby was decked out in holiday splendor—huge red ribbons, a twenty-foot tree, and marble floors that shone like ice.
The security guard, a burly man named Mike who had worked there for twenty years, stood up immediately.
“Good morning, Mrs. Van Der Hoven,” he said, tipping his cap. “My deepest condolences on Mr. Richard.”
“Thank you, Mike,” I said. “Are they here?”
“Yes, Ma’am. They went up ten minutes ago. They seemed… in a hurry.”
“I’m sure they were.”
I took the private elevator to the penthouse suite. The ride was smooth and silent. My ears popped as we passed the 30th floor.
When the doors opened, I stepped into the boardroom. It was a room of glass, offering a 360-degree view of Manhattan. Central Park lay to the north, a white rectangle. Rockefeller Center was below, the giant tree looking like a toy.
James, Caroline, and Vanessa were sitting at the long mahogany table. They looked impatient. Vanessa was tapping her long acrylic nails on the polished wood.
Sitting at the head of the table was Mr. Henderson, our estate attorney. He was a man of few words and even fewer smiles.
“Finally,” Vanessa huffed as I walked in. “We’ve been waiting. Let’s get this over with so we can get back to Scarsdale and start the inventory.”
I didn’t sit in the empty chair at the side, where they expected me to. I walked to the head of the table, next to Mr. Henderson. I poured myself a glass of water from the crystal pitcher.
“You can begin, Arthur,” I said.
Mr. Henderson adjusted his spectacles. He opened a thick leather binder.
“As you know,” he began, his voice dry as parchment, “Richard passed away on December 21st. This meeting is to execute the distribution of his estate.”
“Skip the legal mumbo-jumbo,” James interrupted. “Just tell us the numbers. The trust funds, the real estate portfolio, the building.”
Mr. Henderson looked up. “Very well. The estate of Richard Van Der Hoven consists of his personal effects… clothing, a collection of golf clubs, and a 2018 Mercedes sedan.”
Silence.
Vanessa laughed nervously. “What? What about the accounts? The Scarsdale house? This building?”
“Richard passed away with significant debts,” Mr. Henderson said calmly. “Specifically, debts related to gambling and high-risk venture capital losses dating back to 2012.”
“That’s a lie!” Caroline shouted, standing up. “Daddy was a tycoon!”
“Daddy was a gambling addict,” I said.
My voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped the room cold. I turned to face them.
“Ten years ago,” I continued, “your father lost everything. He bet the company pension fund on a tech merger that didn’t happen. He leveraged the Scarsdale house three times. He was facing bankruptcy and, quite possibly, prison for embezzlement.”
Vanessa looked pale. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “The bank records are all here.”
“So… we’re broke?” James whispered, slumping in his chair. “There’s nothing?”
“Richard had nothing,” Mr. Henderson corrected. “However, the assets you are referring to—the house, the investment portfolio, and this skyscraper—are quite solvent.”
“I don’t understand,” Vanessa snapped. “If Richard didn’t own them, who does?”
Mr. Henderson smiled. It was a terrifyingly small smile.
“The bank was going to foreclose in 2013,” he explained. “To avoid a public scandal, a private investor stepped in. This investor bought Richard’s debts at cents on the dollar. This investor paid off the liens on the house. This investor restructured the company and turned this building into one of the most profitable commercial spaces in New York.”
“Who?” Vanessa demanded. “Who is the investor? I’ll sue them! They took advantage of a sick man!”
“The investor,” Mr. Henderson said, closing the binder, “is the A.V. Holdings Trust.”
“What is A.V.?” James asked.
I took a sip of water. I looked out the window at the Empire State Building.
“Alberta Van Der Hoven,” I said.
Three heads snapped toward me so fast I thought I heard whiplash.
“You?” Vanessa whispered. “You’re the housewife. You made cookies. You… you don’t work.”
“I worked for thirty years before I met your father,” I said, my voice gaining steel. “I was the CFO of a logistics firm. When I married Richard, I took over his books. When I saw what he was doing, I didn’t leave him. I saved him. I used my own savings, my own inheritance from my parents, and my own credit to buy his debt. I moved every single asset into my name to protect it from his bookies and his bad decisions.”
I leaned forward, placing my hands on the table.
“I own the Scarsdale house. I own this building. I own the furniture you are currently sitting on. Richard lived his last ten years in luxury because I allowed it. Because I loved him, despite his flaws.”
The room was so quiet you could hear the wind howling around the glass corners of the tower.
“So,” Vanessa said, her voice trembling, changing her tune instantly. “So… it stays in the family. That’s great, Alberta! We can work together. I have some great ideas for redecorating the lobby—”
“Stop,” I said.
I picked up a manila envelope from the table and slid it across the mahogany surface toward them.
“Yesterday,” I said, “on the day I buried my husband, you came into my kitchen and told me to pack my bags. You called me an ‘old woman.’ You told me I was useless. You wanted me out by New Year’s.”
“Alberta, we were just stressed,” James stammered. “It was the grief talking.”
“Grief speaks the truth,” I replied. “And you showed me exactly who you are. You didn’t want a mother. You didn’t want a family. You wanted a payout.”
“Open the envelope,” I commanded.
Vanessa opened it with shaking hands. inside were three pieces of paper.
“Eviction notices?” she gasped.
“For the guest cottage in Scarsdale,” I said. “And for the apartment on Park Avenue that James has been living in rent-free for five years. That building is mine, too.”
“You can’t do this!” Caroline cried. “It’s Christmas!”
I walked to the window. The snow was falling again, soft flakes drifting past the glass.
“Yes, it is Christmas,” I said. “A time for charity. Which is why there is also a check in there.”
Vanessa pulled out a check.
“Five thousand dollars?” she scoffed. “That won’t even cover my rent for a month!”
“It’s a fresh start,” I said cold. “It’s more than you would have had if the bank had taken everything ten years ago. It’s enough for a ticket to Florida and a deposit on an apartment. I hear retirement communities there are quite affordable.”
I turned back to them. My eyes were dry. My heart was clear.
“You have until noon to get your personal belongings out of my house in Scarsdale. The locks are being changed at 12:01 PM. Security is waiting in the lobby to escort you out of this building. If you make a scene, I will revoke the checks.”
Vanessa stood up, her face a mask of red fury. She opened her mouth to scream, to curse, to throw something. But she looked at the security guard who had quietly entered the room. She looked at the check in her hand. She realized she had absolutely no leverage.
She grabbed her purse. “Let’s go,” she hissed to James and Caroline. “She’s crazy.”
“No, Vanessa,” I called out as they reached the door. “I’m not crazy. I’m the owner.”
The heavy glass doors closed behind them. I watched them walk to the elevator, defeated, their greed having cost them the very lifestyle they worshipped.
I turned back to Mr. Henderson.
“Thank you, Arthur. You can send the rest of the paperwork to the house.”
“Of course, Alberta. What will you do now?”
I looked out at the city. The lights of Christmas were turning on as the winter afternoon began to fade. The Rockefeller tree glowed like a beacon below.
“I’m going to go home,” I said. “I’m going to pour a glass of Richard’s best scotch. I’m going to sit by my fire. And for the first time in thirty-eight years, I’m going to enjoy a Christmas where I don’t have to hide who I really am.”
I took the elevator down. When I walked out into the snowy street, the cold air didn’t bite. It felt fresh. It felt clean.
I hailed a taxi.
“Where to, lady?” the driver asked.
“Scarsdale,” I said. “Take the scenic route. I want to see the lights.”
As the car pulled away, leaving the towering skyscraper behind me, I realized that the heavy weight I had been carrying—the secrets, the management, the protection of Richard’s ego—was finally gone. I was alone, yes. But I was free. And as the snow swirled around the city, turning New York into a snow globe, I knew it was going to be a very Merry Christmas after all.
