At 35, I married my wealthy 72-year-old boss so my daughter and I wouldn’t end up homeless. After he died, his lawyer looked at me and said, “He prepared this trap specifically for you… and he knew you would fall into it.”

I wiped my face.

“Because there has to be one.”

He walked toward me slowly.

“Nora.”

“No.”

“I need you to listen.”

“I don’t want to.”

He smiled sadly.

“You always were stubborn.”

“And you’re not?”

He laughed.

Then he pulled me into his arms.

“If I don’t get better,” he whispered, “don’t let Emily remember me as someone who was sick.”

I shook my head.

“You’re going to tell her yourself.”

He kissed my forehead.

“I hope I do.”

A year after his diagnosis, Tom’s body finally began to lose the fight.

I sat beside his bed.

Emily was sleeping at my mother’s friend’s house.

Tom’s breathing had become shallow.

He looked at me.

“Nora.”

“I’m here.”

“Take care of her.”

“I will.”

“And take care of yourself too.”

“I will.”

He smiled.

That was the last smile I ever saw.

A few minutes later, he was gone.

---

After the funeral, I discovered that grief wasn’t the hardest part.

Survival was.

The medical bills kept coming.

The rent kept coming.

The electricity bill didn’t care that my husband had died.

Neither did the bank.

I sold what little I could.

I cut every expense possible.

I took extra shifts.