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.”

Then he looked away.

There were little moments like that.

Moments when I felt as though Richard was hiding something.

Once, I mentioned the shelter where I had grown up.

He froze.

Another time, I told him about the nickname someone had given me as a child.

“The stray kitten.”

Richard’s face changed.

“What did you say?”

I laughed.

“It’s nothing.”

But he didn’t laugh.

“Who called you that?”

“I don’t remember.”

He looked down at his coffee.

“I see.”

I didn’t understand.

I didn’t know that Richard remembered.

He remembered everything.

Then my landlord called again.

“You need to move out.”

I begged him.

“I have a job now.”

“You’re still behind.”

“I just need more time.”

“You’ve had more time.”

“My husband died.”

There was silence.

Then he said,

“I understand, Nora. But I have bills too.”

When the call ended, I stood in the pantry with my phone pressed against my chest.