The day before he died, he asked for the blue blanket from home. I brought it folded over my arm and found Marlene arranging flowers by the sink, throwing away lilies before they opened.
For one second, she looked less cruel than exhausted. Then she saw me and hardened again. Russell slept through most of that afternoon. I sat beside him, counting breaths instead of tips, wishing for any bargain that would buy one more month. When he woke, he only touched my wrist, as if reminding himself I was real.
At the funeral, his three children stood opposite me in matching black coats, like a wall. People offered condolences, then drifted toward them. I stood alone by the casket and cried because I had loved him, and because no one there believed me.
They had to be delivered in person, with the children present.
After the last guest left, the lawyer touched my elbow.
“Elena,” he said, “Russell left instructions.”
They had to be delivered in person, with the children present.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “My office, nine.”
Then his voice softened.
“He asked me to repeat his last instruction. Trust him.”
The funeral’s chill was still under my skin when I sat in the lawyer’s office the next morning.
The lawyer set his glasses on his nose and looked between us.
Marlene and her brothers were already there, lined up like a jury. She crossed her legs and tilted her head at me.
