When my son fell seriously ill at thirty-eight, his world—and ours—shrunk to hospital rooms and the hum of machines. At first, his wife appeared devoted, but gradually she drifted away, claiming exhaustion or fear, until one evening she didn’t return at all. A week later, she calmly confessed she’d fallen in love with someone else and would file for divorce.
I became his sole caretaker—managing IVs, feeding him, reading to him, holding his hand through pain. He passed before the divorce was finalized. At his funeral, she wept in public while I stood quietly, clutching the scarf I had wrapped around him.
Weeks later, she screamed at me. She had overlooked my son’s condition in his will: though she inherited everything on paper, she couldn’t access a penny until she returned every personal item he had owned—letters, photos, keepsakes. Only then would a small trust go to the person who had stayed by him: me.
I never fought for the inheritance. I simply kept showing up—and my son made sure that counted.