If my children wanted to live as though I were already gone, I would give them exactly that.
What they did not know was that the widow they ignored still controlled everything.
The house.
The acreage.
Richard’s investment accounts.
The lake property he bought before any of them were born.
Every dollar they had privately counted while pretending their questions were concern.
They had been asking for years.
Not directly, of course.
Greed rarely wears its real clothes when it visits family.
“Have you updated your will, Mom?”
“Who’s handling the lake house when you’re gone?”
“You should make things easier now so there won’t be confusion later.”
They never asked what I needed.
Only what would be left.
The morning after Christmas, I put the untouched leftovers into containers and drove them to a church kitchen that served hot meals.
I left the wrapped stockings in a box by the door.
I washed the dishes.
I stripped the table.
Then I took a photograph of the dining room before I put the chairs back.
Seventeen empty places.
Seventeen names.
Seventeen people who had taught me exactly where I stood.
In January, I hired a lawyer.
