At My Husband’s Funeral, His Mistress Sat in the Front Row—Then the Priest Read His Final Letter

I did not answer.

I already knew.

Her name was Vivian.

I had seen it once on my husband Arthur’s phone, years before, attached to a message that said, I miss you already.
When I asked him about it, he told me she was a client. He looked me straight in the eyes and lied so gently that I almost thanked him for it.

Now Arthur was lying in a polished wooden casket at the front of St. Matthew’s Church, and Vivian sat three seats away from me as if she belonged there.

My son Daniel stood up.