My son-in-law looked at the cheap navy suit I wore to bury my wife and said, “At least Martha doesn’t have to stand next to a failure anymore.” A few people laughed. My daughter looked down. Three months later, he slid power-of-attorney papers across my coffee table—and froze when he realized I hadn’t invited him there alone.
The day I buried my wife, I learned exactly what kind of man my son-in-law was, and exactly what kind of daughter I had raised. My wife Martha had been dead three days. The casseroles from church ladies were lining our kitchen counters. Her reading glasses were still folded on the end table beside her…
