It was the day of my father’s second chemo crash. The day I’d called Grant three times from the ER because Dad’s blood pressure had dropped and I was scared. He eventually texted, In a meeting, can’t talk. Love you.
The attached receipt showed room service for two at a boutique hotel in Napa. Champagne. Late check-out.
My mouth went dry.
“He told me your father was manipulative,” Becca said quietly. “He said once your dad died, he’d finally be free.”
I looked up so fast she recoiled.
“Free?”
She nodded, already crying now. “He said your father kept him on a leash. That he had to act a certain way until things were settled. He said there would probably be a period of public grief, but after that everything would open up.”
Open up.
Like a trust. A house. A widow’s guard dropping.
I sat back slowly.
“He brought me to the funeral because he said…” She wiped her nose with a paper napkin, humiliated and angry in equal measure. “He said it was time people got used to seeing us together. He said your marriage was basically over, and after the service there would be conversations and maybe some scandal, but then we could stop hiding.”