My son won the lottery, kicked me out of the house, and said: “You’re worthless! Go live in a nursing home.” I wandered aimlessly to clear my mind. When I sat down on a bench, a homeless man walked up to me, smiled, and said: “You look just like my late wife…”

“You were angry at me?”

“Furious. I know it wasn’t logical, but grief doesn’t follow logic. I was angry that you’d hidden your illness from me. Angry that you’d made the decision to suffer alone instead of letting me help you through it. I was angry that your last words were questioning my love instead of remembering all the ways I’d tried to show it.”

The grief on his face was still fresh, even knowing now that Richard had fabricated every detail of my supposed illness and death.

“I used to have conversations with you in my head,” he continued. “Long angry arguments where I’d tell you exactly what I thought about your choice to shut me out at the end. I’d walk for miles, muttering under my breath like a crazy person, fighting with a dead wife who never actually said the things I was angry about.”Get Marriage Tips