He didn’t even have the courtesy to lie honestly.
I wanted to scream, to demand answers, to tell him what a coward he was, but grief has the power to drain every spark of anger from him. I didn’t have the strength to fight for someone who didn’t think I was worth staying. So I signed the papers with a firm hand that couldn’t match the tremors that shot through my body.
When he left the house for the last time, he didn’t look back. I stood at the window and watched him pull into the driveway, wondering how long he’d been waiting for the right moment to leave me. Maybe he thought there was no better time than when I was already broken.
The following weeks were strangely peaceful. I exchanged my husband’s empty words for the company of my father’s memory, which somehow felt more benign. I focused on rebuilding myself, piece by piece. I gave away clothes I didn’t wear. I rearranged the house. I visited my mother more often. And slowly, the pain became bearable.
One afternoon, I received a call from my father’s lawyer. His voice was warm and attentive, as if he had spent years delivering messages that required kindness.
“I think it’s time we got to know each other,” he said. “Your father left instructions for you to share the contents of the will with him privately as soon as everything is finalized.”
I blinked. “Did he… have a will?”
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