Because of his job in construction, Mark believed in planning ahead. He wrote a simple will, just in case. If anything ever happened to him, the house would belong to Emma.
None of us imagined that “just in case” would come so soon.
A workplace accident took my son’s life before any of his plans could become reality. Emma was only two years old. I held her tiny hand at the funeral as she stared at the casket, unable to understand why her father wasn’t getting up. Melissa greeted people stiffly, her expression distant and unreadable.
After the service, back in the house that still carried traces of Mark’s aftershave, I found Melissa packing a suitcase. When I begged her to stop and talk, she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Take care of her,” she said flatly, tossing the house keys toward me as if they burned her fingers.
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