“Of what?”
“Losing you.”
He smiled faintly.
“You knew you would.”
“I didn’t think it would be this soon.”
Neither did I.
He reached for my hand.
His fingers were cold.
“I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“When I’m gone, don’t let them convince you that you didn’t belong.”
I shook my head.
“Richard—”
“Promise me.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I promise.”
He looked toward the window.
Then back at me.
“And don’t open anything unless they are all there.”
“What?”
He smiled.
“You’ll know.”
I thought the medication had confused him.
I didn’t ask again.
He died three days later.
At his funeral, I sat in the front row.
Rebecca sat across the aisle.
She didn’t look at me once.
Michael did.
Thomas didn’t.
I cried through the entire service.
Not because of the inheritance.
Not because of the house.
Because the man who had once noticed my tired feet was gone.
After the funeral, I returned to the house alone.
It had never felt so large.
His coffee cup was still beside the sink.
His newspaper was still folded on the table.
His reading glasses were sitting beside his chair.
I stood there for almost an hour.
