Whenever I reached out, I got short, rehearsed responses: “We’ve been so busy lately,” or “The kids have activities this weekend.” They never had time, and when they did, they didn’t use it on me.
Daniel also changed. I honestly don’t know what happened to him. He became… someone else. The poetry stopped, and the phone calls dwindled. When we did talk, it felt rushed, as if I were some distant relative he had an obligation to call once a month. My heart broke a little every time he spoke to me like I was a burden.
Then came the first blow.
A month ago, my dear husband passed away. He was 69 years old when he had a heart attack in his sleep. We didn’t even get to say goodbye. He’d always been the quiet strength in our family, a man of few words but endless depth.
My late husband loved deeply, although he didn’t always show it the way I did. But one thing was certain — he loved our home and had always wanted me to stay in it no matter what.
The days after the funeral blurred together, but one moment stood out so sharply that I can still hear every word.
The morning after the service, our lawyer, Mr. Halpern, visited my house to read my husband’s will. He sat with me at the dining table, his hands folded neatly on top of a manila folder. Daniel and Mary sat across from us.
My son looked solemn and respectful, while his wife looked impatient, tapping her nails on the table like she had somewhere more important to be.
Mr. Halpern cleared his throat and read the will. According to the document, my house would be given to Daniel, with the suggestion that I remain temporarily. My late husband’s exact words were, “Let your mom stay there for now. You’ll get it later.” Mary’s face brightened instantly.
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