it when she was tired. He listened to me when I spoke, even when what I said didn’t matter.
And at some point, awkwardly and almost embarrassingly, I stopped pretending I didn’t care.
I really loved him.
Then Richard got sick.
Everything happened terrifyingly quickly.
Six weeks after the diagnosis, I was standing at his funeral.
His children stood in front of me as if I had personally taken their father from them.
Rebecca barely looked at me.
I cried anyway.
Not for the house.
Not for the money.
But because the man who had made me feel safe for the first time in years was gone.
After the funeral, Richard’s lawyer asked me to come to his office.
When I arrived, Richard’s three children were already there.
Nobody greeted me.
On the lawyer’s desk was a small wooden box.
There was no visible will.
No thick pile of documents.
