My Wife Passed Away And Only 4 People Came To Her Funeral Because Our Children Were Too ‘Busy.’ The Next Morning, They Showed Up At My Door Demanding I Sell Our $1.2m Home And Move Into A Nursing Home. They Think They Are Entitled To Half The Money, But I Just Found A Hidden Key My Wife Left Behind.
A Lonely Goodbye
I watched my wife Helen’s casket disappear behind the crematorium curtain at Garden of Peace Memorial in Tampa. The viewing room held exactly four people: me, George Thompson, 68 years old; Pastor Williams, who’d known Helen for maybe 20 minutes before the service; my neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez, who brought a casserole I’d never eat; and the funeral director, checking his watch.
Empty chairs stretched out in rows behind me. 43 years of marriage, and this was her goodbye. Four people.
I pulled out my phone—old habit from my detective days; always check the evidence. I opened Facebook. There was my son, Marcus, 45 years old, posting from South Beach. Him and his girlfriend, Vanessa, on a yacht, champagne bottles. The caption read: “Celebrating new opportunities. Life’s too short for regrets.”
Posted 3 hours ago. Three hours ago, I was signing the cremation authorization.
I scrolled down. My daughter, Nina, 41, had posted from Atlanta. A selfie at some tech conference, designer blazer, professional smile, networking with industry leaders, building the future,. #blessed #entrepreneur. Posted this morning, while I was picking out the urn.
They knew. I’d called them both 4 days ago when Helen died. Marcus said he had investor meetings he couldn’t reschedule. Nina said she was keynote speaker at a summit, $20,000 speaking fee; she couldn’t lose it. They didn’t know what Helen had left for me. They had no idea what was coming.
The Morning After
The next morning, my doorbell rang at 8:30. I hadn’t slept. The house felt wrong without Helen’s breathing, without her humming while she made coffee, without her telling me to stop brooding and come watch the sunrise.
I opened the door. Marcus and Nina stood there, both in business casual, not black. Marcus wore khakis and a polo shirt like he was heading to a golf course. Nina had on a cream pantsuit, her hair in those perfect beach waves that cost $200 at the salon. Marcus held a cardboard carrier with Starbucks cups; Nina had a bag from Panera.
“Morning, Dad,” Marcus said, walking past me.
His cologne hit me first; too much of it, trying too hard,.
“We brought breakfast. Figured you wouldn’t feel like cooking.”
Nina kissed my cheek. Her perfume was different, too expensive. Everything about them was expensive now.
“Double espresso for you, Dad. And a bagel with that cream cheese you like.”
They’d never brought me breakfast before. Not once in 40 years.
I sat down at the kitchen table. Helen’s table. She’d refinished it herself 10 years ago, sanded down the old oak and restained it. Her hands had touched every inch of this house. Marcus took the seat across from me. Nina sat to my right, already pulling out her phone, checking messages.
