And then, there was my mother-in-law.
Two weeks after the funeral, realizing that her beloved grandson Leo’s “inheritance” was actually a mountainous liability of federal debt, she had the sheer, staggering audacity to call my private cell phone.
I let it ring three times before answering.
“Clara,” she wept, her voice trembling, devoid of its usual venom. “Clara, please. The nursing home… they’re threatening to discharge me. Victor’s accounts are frozen. I can’t pay for my spinal treatments. You have to help me. We are family.”
I stood in my kitchen, tracing the marble countertop with my finger. I listened to her sobbing, the pathetic gasps of a woman who had spent two decades treating me like the hired help. I let her cry for a full, uninterrupted minute. I savored the sound.
When she finally paused to catch her breath, I spoke, my voice devoid of any emotion.
