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The funeral was a blur of black suits and muffled whispers. I stood awkwardly at the front, surrounded by her relatives who shot me glances filled with contempt. I could almost hear their thoughts as they muttered behind cupped hands.
“Gold digger.”
“He got exactly what he wanted.”
They were right, though, weren’t they? I had married her for her stability. I didn’t love her. I had thought I wanted her house, her money. As I stood there, the reality of it crashed over me like cold water. Guilt pricked at my chest; I felt like a parasite.
But deep down, I consoled myself. I’d always put on a mask, pretending I was fine, pretending I cared more than I did, and now it was too late. I was left alone in this world, the weight of her family’s disdain pulling me deeper into the ground.
The Will
A week later, I found myself in a sterile office, a wooden table dividing me from her lawyer. The air was thick with tension as he opened the will. My heart raced like a drum, a steady thrum of hope. Maybe there would be something for me. A token of her affection, something to hold on to. I didn’t deserve it, but hope can make fools of us.
As he read, my stomach tightened. The house went to her niece, her beloved possessions to distant relatives I’d never heard of. Most of the money was donated to charity — the charities Evelyn had supported over the years. I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I was a ghost in a room full of living beings, utterly invisible and grasping for air.
“And now, there’s one last item.” The lawyer placed a worn shoebox on the table, its edges frayed and the surface scuffed. My name was written across the top in Evelyn’s neat handwriting, and I frowned, confused.
“What is this?”
The lawyer looked at me quietly, the weight of the moment pressing between us. “She said this is what you really wanted.”