Three days after I buried my wife, my son-in-law tried to claim her business, the house on Maple Street, and even her car before the lawyer finished the first page of the will, then pointed at me and said, “The old lazy bum can keep the tax bills.” A few people laughed. He had no idea the lawyer was already reaching for a second folder that was about to change the way everyone in that room looked at me.
An hour after we buried Margaret, my son-in-law tried to divide up her life before the lawyer had even finished clearing his throat. We had come straight from the church luncheon, where the women from First Congregational had set out ham biscuits, potato salad, and those little square lemon bars Margaret used to pretend she…
