Twenty minutes of mourning apparently exceeded Vanessa’s patience.
“He’s doing this for attention,” Derek had complained.
“Dad, we’re leaving in five minutes,” Vanessa warned.
I requested another ten minutes.
Three minutes later, they were gone.
At seventy-one, I stood stranded in the deserted cemetery with my phone and Eleanor’s favorite white roses.
Fear wasn’t what I felt. It was profound disillusionment.
Three months before, Derek had proposed putting my home in Vanessa’s name.
“Just estate planning,” he’d said. “At your age, anything could happen.”
Vanessa had offered a sugary smile.
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