The day he died, I was at the grocery store picking out avocados.

David, my son, called with a voice I’d never heard from him before—flat and careful, like he was afraid the words themselves might shatter me. “Mom… you need to come to the hospital. Dad collapsed at work.”

By the time I got there, Bob was already gone. A massive heart attack, the doctor said. He probably didn’t feel much. Quick and clean—the way Bob would’ve wanted it if he’d had a choice.

I didn’t cry at the funeral. Everyone assumed I was in shock, that the grief hadn’t hit yet.

But the truth was simpler, and stranger.

I felt relief.

Not because I hated him. I didn’t. But somewhere deep inside, beneath the exhaustion and the casseroles people kept bringing over, I felt like I could finally breathe. I just didn’t know why yet.

Three days after the funeral, a letter arrived.

A plain white envelope. No return address. My name typed neatly on the front.

Inside was a single sheet of paper from First National Bank.