Two weeks before the courthouse wedding, Evie slid a folder across her kitchen table. “What’s this?” I asked. “A prenuptial agreement, Damon.” I laughed at first, thinking she could not be serious, but she folded her hands and said, “Lonely doesn’t mean careless. The house stays mine. My savings stay mine. And if something happens to me, my will speaks for me.” I asked if she thought I was after her money. Evie looked at me over her reading glasses and said, “I think hunger makes good people do ugly things, honey.” My face burned. I signed anyway, telling myself paper was only paper. Time changed things. People changed wills.
Everyone called her Evelyn, but she let me call her Evie because it made her feel young. That was who she was. She left warmth in every room, though most days I chose not to notice it. I noticed other things instead: the full pantry, the soft towels, the medicine bottles in the cabinet, and the doctor appointments written on the fridge calendar. Every appointment caught my attention. Every new pill bottle made me wonder how much time she had left.
