He had not abandoned the account.
He had built it, month after month, while I believed he had measured me and found me cheap.
The attorney whose card had been tucked into the
envelope saw me the next afternoon.
By then I had checked into the hospital for the tests I had delayed because I thought I had no choice.
The strangest part of signing the admissions papers was how simple it felt once money was no longerthe obstacle.
I kept waiting for someone to tell me there had been another mistake, that the account would vanish, that humiliation would return and collect its debt.
It did not.
The attorney confirmed what the letter had said.
Richard had updated his estate documents after the divorce.
There was no hidden mistress, no second wife, no child I had never heard about.
He had rented a small apartment near an ALS clinic on the other side of the city and paid for in-home help until he could no longer stay there safely.
He had named me beneficiary where he could.
He had also left a sealed box for me.
The box was waiting in the lawyer’s office.
Inside were five unsent birthday cards, one for each year we had been apart.
There were anniversary letters he had written and never mailed.
There was a photograph of the four ofus at a lake when the children were young, all bad hair and sunburned shoulders and grinning faces.
There was the grocery list from the first apartment we ever rented, folded into quarters and yellow at the edges because apparently he had kept it for decades.
At the bottom was his wedding ring.
I opened the first birthday card with my pulse hammering in my throat.
He wrote that the silence was harder than he had imagined.
In the second, he wrote that he had heard from our daughter that the roof where I was staying leaked and that he sat awake half the night wanting to send more money directly, knowing I would reject it if I knew it came from him.
