My wife chose the week my mother died to sign part of our company over to the man she had been sleeping with. She thought grief would make me easy to rush. By the time we sat down across from each other in mediation, her lover had called me 23 times, and she was staring at one sheet of paper like it had just rewritten her life.
The call came on a Tuesday morning while I was still sitting in the hospital parking garage with the engine running and my hands locked around the steering wheel. My mother had died at 4:47 that morning. She was eighty-one years old, and if there is such a thing as a peaceful death,…
