I thought he was talking about leaving me alone. I thought he was talking about the pain of dying. I kissed his forehead and told him it was okay. I told him he had been a good husband.

Two days after the funeral, I got a call from Arthur Crane. He has been our family attorney since we bought our three-bedroom split-level in 1994. His voice sounded heavy. He told me I needed to come to his office on Park Avenue West. He told me to bring the children.

When we arrived, the office smelled of old paper and lemon furniture polish. I sat in one of the leather chairs, holding Richard’s silver pocket watch in my coat pocket. My fingers kept tracing the cracked glass. David and Sarah sat next to me. They were quiet. Too quiet. Usually, Sarah would be holding my hand, but she was leaning away, staring at the window.

Then the door opened.

A woman walked in. She was younger than me, maybe forty. She was wearing a bright red wool dress that looked completely wrong for a lawyer’s office, and her heels made a loud, sharp clicking sound on the hardwood floor. She had a young lawyer with her, a guy with very white teeth and a shiny blue suit.

She did not look at me. She just sat down in the chair directly across from mine.

“Who is this, Arthur?” I asked. My voice sounded small.

Arthur did not look at me either. He looked at his desk. “This is Misty Harrison, Ellen. And her legal counsel, Mr. Vance.”

Misty’s attorney opened a leather briefcase. “We are here to present the last will and testament of Richard Vance, signed and executed three weeks ago.”

He slid a document across the table. Arthur picked it up, examined the signature, and nodded slowly. “It is legal, Ellen. It looks like he revoked the 2012 will.”

I could not breathe. My chest felt tight, like someone was squeezing my ribs. “What do you mean, revoked?”

Misty leaned forward. She had this tiny, smug smile on her face. “It means Richard left everything to me, honey. The house. The savings. The 1.2 million dollar life insurance policy from the plant. All of it. He loved me more. He just felt sorry for you.”

I sat there. I did not scream. I did not cry. My brain just stopped working. I looked at the paper. I saw Richard’s signature at the bottom. It was his handwriting. The loops on the ‘R’ were shaky, but it was him.

Then I looked at my children.

Sarah was staring at her lap, her face completely pale. David was looking out the window, his jaw tight.