I chickened out. Stayed at a friend’s house. Came home the next day to a house that was too quiet.
No radio. No humming. No sounds from the kitchen.
Her bedroom door was half open.
She was lying on top of the covers, work clothes still on, shoes still tied.
Her hand was cool.
People said “heart attack.” They said “quick.” They said “she didn’t feel a thing.”
I felt everything.
Three days later, the letter arrived.
Back at the kitchen table, hands shaking, I kept reading.
Go to my closet. Top shelf. Behind the blue shoebox.
Behind it was a thick folder with my name on it.
Inside were savings accounts. A college fund. A small life insurance policy.
Continue reading…
