By Tuesday my feeds were full of it — aunts and uncles and old friends of the Ainsworths posting long paragraphs about how I had faked a car accident to dodge a funeral, abandoned my grieving husband, and schemed to strip him of everything he’d earned.

It stung more than I expected, the public version of a private cruelty.

But I had learned, building a company, that you do not win an argument by joining it.

So I didn’t answer a single post.

Instead Fallon sat beside my bed with her laptop and quietly saved every one of them — screenshot, timestamp, name — into a folder she labeled, without irony, Defamation. Let them write, I thought.

Let them put it all in writing, where a court can read it later.