The attorney whose card had been tucked into the
envelope saw me the next afternoon.
By then I had checked into the hospital for the tests I had delayed because I thought I had no choice.
The strangest part of signing the admissions papers was how simple it felt once money was no longer the obstacle.
I kept waiting for someone to tell me there had been another mistake, that the account would vanish, that humiliation would return and collect its debt.
It did not.
The attorney confirmed what the letter had said.
Richard had updated his estate documents after the divorce.
There was no hidden mistress, no second wife, no child I had never heard about.
He had rented a small apartment near an ALS clinic on the other side of the city and paid for in-home help until he could no longer stay there safely.
He had named me beneficiary where he could.
