Margaret deserved peace.
She deserved dignity.
She deserved one final day that was about her, not about shouting, accusations, or money.
But I remembered every word.
After the service, everyone returned to our house.
Neighbors brought casseroles, bread, coffee, and more food than I could possibly eat.
People filled the rooms and shared stories about Margaret.
For a few hours, her laughter seemed to live inside the walls again.
Then the guests left.
My children left soon after.
No one offered to stay the night.
I sat alone at the kitchen table until the room grew dark.
For years, Margaret and I had lived carefully.
We stayed in the same modest house, drove old cars, avoided expensive vacations, and saved almost everything we could.
We wanted to leave our children something meaningful after we were gone.
Margaret kept household accounts in a small green notebook.
She could tell me exactly how much we had spent on groceries, repairs, and electricity each month.
Whenever I suggested replacing something, she would ask, “Does it still work?”
If the answer was yes, the matter was settled.
Between our savings, investments, and the money from a property we had sold, there was enough for each of them to receive a substantial inheritance.
Our children knew that.
We had never given them exact figures, but they understood that we had planned for their futures. Margaret and I imagined the money might help with mortgages, education, or our grandchildren.
Apparently, they had already begun thinking of the money as theirs.
Two weeks after the funeral, Graham came to see me.
He sat across from me at the kitchen table and cleared his throat.
“Have you updated your will?” he asked.
I stared at him.
Margaret had been gone for 14 days.
“I haven’t thought about it,” I replied.
He shifted in his chair. “You probably should. Just so everything is organized.”
The next day, Phoebe called.
She asked how I was doing, but she did not wait for an answer.
“What will happen to the house?” she said.
“I live in it,” I reminded her.
“I know, Dad. I just mean eventually.”
A few days later, Julian stopped by. He walked through the living room and looked around as if he were inspecting the place.
“Selling it now might be easier for everyone,” he said casually.
“Everyone?” I asked.
He avoided my eyes.
Not one of them asked whether I was sleeping.
