PART 2
The cemetery was almost empty when I arrived.
A thin October wind moved through the maple trees, scattering brittle leaves across the narrow asphalt path. The sun had gone down behind the hills, leaving behind a bruised purple sky. Somewhere beyond the stone wall, traffic hummed on the highway, distant and indifferent.
I parked beside the old iron fence and walked toward my father’s grave.
Arthur Bennett.
1937–2011.
Beloved Husband. Beloved Father.
I stood in front of his headstone with my arms wrapped around myself.
For years, I had hated the fact that his last words about Mark had been bitter.
“That man will disappoint you one day, Carol.”
I had accused my father of being unfair.
Suspicious.
Old-fashioned.
Mark had been a good husband, I told myself. A good father. A hardworking man.
Thirty-one years of marriage had seemed like proof.
Now I stared at my father’s
