“You’re a burden. Walk home.”
Half a minute later, Vanessa, my daughter, followed with three words.
“Don’t wait, Dad.”
Under a bleak November sky, I read their texts as the red lights of their black SUV vanished through the cemetery entrance.
For forty-three years, Eleanor had been my wife, business partner, and closest confidante.
It was exactly two years since she had died.
With my car at the repair shop, I’d asked Vanessa and Derek to take me to her resting place. They agreed grudgingly, insisting we be back before supper.
At her headstone, memories overcame me. I knelt and spoke of our garden, empty kitchen, and silent house.
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