Chapter 1
The insurance company called while I was at the funeral home, standing by his casket during the visitation.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, the screen glaring brightly against the dark fabric of my mourning dress. I stepped slightly away from the flower arrangements, pressing the phone between my ear and shoulder while smoothing down my skirt with a trembling hand.
"Hello, is this Mrs. Carter?" the voice on the other end asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"This is the Life Insurance Claims Department. We've processed the payout for your husband, David Carter's critical illness insurance. Please check your account for the funds."
I froze, my hand stopping mid-air as I looked over at David's framed portrait next to the register book.
"It's in my account?" I asked.
"It's been transferred to the beneficiary's account," the woman replied.
"I'm the beneficiary," I said.
There was a brief silence, just the sound of keys tapping. When the woman spoke again, her voice was softer now.
"Mrs. Carter, our system shows you're not the beneficiary," she said.
"Who is it, then?" I asked.
"After the policyholder changed it, the beneficiary is a woman named Bennett. Laura Bennett," she replied.
*****
The heavy scent of the lilies suddenly felt suffocating, blurring my vision. I slowly pulled the phone away from my ear, staring at the call timer—four minutes and seventeen seconds.
The name hadn't been spoken on the line, but I recognized it instantly. Laura Bennett. David's ex-wife. They'd been divorced for eight years.
I hung up, the silence of the viewing room rushing back to fill the void. I gripped the edge of the wood paneling, my knees trembling against the cold hardwood floor as I forced myself to stand. In the center of the room, next to the closed casket, David's portrait sat on a brass easel.
The photo had been taken three years ago—back when he could still smile, the corners of his mouth turning upward. Before ALS stole his mobility and froze the very last muscle in his body, he had managed one final smile for the camera. He had told me, "Whenever you miss me, just look at this."
I didn't look at him. I tossed his favorite worn-out baseball cap into the trash can by the door and turned to walk out of the funeral home.
The lobby attendant at the front desk was eating a turkey club sandwich out of a styrofoam container, a packet of chips open beside him. He looked up at me, his plastic fork paused in midair.
Outside, the rain hadn't stopped for a single moment all day.
The year I married David, he had nothing except a six-year-old son.
When his ex-wife, Laura Bennett, divorced him, she took the house, the car, and all the savings—but left the kid behind. The divorce papers said, "The father will pay one thousand dollars in child support every month until the child turns eighteen." She even gave up her visitation rights.
The day she left, she stood at the doorway with her suitcase, and David's son, Alex, was sobbing, holding onto her leg. She shook him off and said something.
"Stop crying. You're staying with your dad from now on," Laura said.
As she opened the door, her suitcase bumped against the threshold. She never glanced back.
I joined their family the next year.
The first time Alex saw me, he curled up in the corner of the sofa, his face buried in his arms. No matter how I called him, he wouldn't look up. I took a bag of milk candy from my purse and set it on his knee. I didn't say a word.
He snuck a glance at me from between his arms, then reached out and took one. He didn't unwrap it, just gripped it by the wrapper for a long while. He didn't eat it. He pushed the candy half an inch toward me on the coffee table.
It took me a year to get Alex to call me "Mom." I never forced him—he did it on his own. One day, he had a high fever, and I carried him three bus stops to the hospital.
In the ER hallway, he clung to my collar, delirious from the fever, and called out, "Mom."
When I set him on the exam table, he wouldn't let go of my finger. The nurse gave him an injection, and he buried his face in my palm.
I was twenty-eight that year.