I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5m and 6 Manhattan lofts. When I walked into the house, I overheard my parents talking. What they were saying… made my blood run cold.

My name is Fay Terrell. I’m 31 years old. I’m a museum manager in Manhattan. And two weeks ago, I buried the only person who ever truly saw me.
Now, let me take you back to the beginning. The morning of Nathan’s funeral, when I stood alone in a half empty church and realized my family wasn’t coming.The morning is cold for September. St. Andrews Chapel on 9th Avenue seats 200. 14 people show up. I count them because there’s nothing else to do while the organist plays a hymn Nathan never would have picked. 14. Three of his college roommates, his boss from the architecture firm, six colleagues from my museum who carpooled from Chelsea, the florist who stays because she knew Nathan from the Saturday market, a neighbor from our building, and James Whitfield, Nathan’s attorney, sitting in the back row in a dark suit, handsfolded, watching everything.

My mother’s chair is empty. My father’s chair is empty. Chloe’s chair is empty.