So Richard got sick.
Everything happened terrifyingly fast.
Six weeks after the diagnosis, I was standing at his funeral.
His children were in front of me as if I had personally taken their father.
Rebecca barely looked at me.
I cried anyway.
Not for the house.
Not for the money.
But because the man who had made me feel safe for the first time in years was gone.
After the funeral, Richard’s lawyer asked me to come to his office.
When I arrived, Richard’s three sons were already there.
No one greeted me.
On the lawyer’s desk was a small wooden
box.
There was no visible will.
No thick pile of documents.
Just the box.
Rebecca lay in her chair with a slight smile.
Then the lawyer looked at me.
“Richard left very specific instructions.”
No one spoke.
He slowly pushed the wooden box down the desk to me.
