I married my high school sweetheart at 70 — two weeks after his children threw me out with only the dress I was wearing, his lawyer arrived at my trailer and said, “Your husband made sure you got EXACTLY what you deserved.”

I stared at the attorney.

“That can’t be right.”

“It is.”

“But they told me the house was theirs.”

“They were wrong.”

My hands covered my mouth.

The attorney continued.

“There’s more.”

Apparently, Thomas had also left me a separate investment account large enough that I would never have to worry about rent, bills, or medical expenses again.

I shook my head immediately.

“I don’t want it.”

The attorney smiled slightly.

“He knew you’d say that.”

Then he handed me another page.

Thomas had written:

“You will probably try to refuse all of this.

Don’t.

You spent your whole life taking care of everyone else.

Let me take care of you once.”

That was when I started crying.

Not because of the money.

Because I could hear him saying it.

I could almost see the little smile he always made when he knew I was about to argue with him.