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And then Richard got sick.
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Everything happened frighteningly fast.
At first, we thought he simply needed more rest.
Then came the tests, the doctors, and the long conversations that neither of us wanted to end with words about the future.
Six weeks after the diagnosis, I was already standing at his funeral.
His children looked at me as if I were personally responsible for their father’s death.
Rebecca barely looked at me.
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I stood among people who had known Richard for decades, and I felt completely alone.
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And yet I cried.
Not because of the house.
Not because of the money.
But because the man who had made me feel safe for the first time in many years was no longer beside me.
After the funeral, Richard’s lawyer asked me to come to his office.
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