My heart, already shattered into a million pieces by the sudden, massive aneurysm that had stolen my brilliant, kind-hearted husband at the age of thirty-two, felt as if it were being ground into dust under their designer heels.
I didn’t scream at them. I didn’t cry. The tears had run dry somewhere between the hospital waiting room and the graveside.
They threw my memories in the mud, calling me a parasite because they thought they owned the host. They didn’t realize that my late husband didn’t just give me his name; he gave me their entire kingdom.
I slowly walked forward, my sensible black flats sinking into the wet earth. I ignored the scattered clothes. I ignored Eleanor’s venomous glare and Chloe’s camera. I knelt in a large, muddy puddle and gently picked up a heavy, leather-bound book that had fallen from the suitcase.
It was our wedding album.
The thick, glossy cover was smeared with dark brown mud, obscuring the bright, loving smile Terrence had worn as we danced our first dance. I pulled a tissue from my pocket and carefully, methodically wiped the mud away from his face, ignoring the rain plastering my hair to my forehead.
The pain in my chest didn’t break me. Instead, it hardened, freezing into a solid, unbreakable block of absolute, glacial ice.
I stood up, clutching the heavy album tightly to my chest like a shield. I looked at Eleanor, whose face was a mask of aristocratic disgust.
“You’re right, Eleanor,” I whispered, my voice carrying clearly through the damp air. “I have nothing.”
I turned my back on the massive, imposing facade of the Washington estate. I didn’t look back as I walked down the long, winding driveway in the rain, leaving my ruined clothes in the mud, not letting them see my final, solitary tear.
