He was gone instantly.
His wife, Vanessa, had been in the passenger seat. She survived with only minor injuries.
For two days I moved through the world like a ghost—planning a funeral, answering calls, trying to accept that my son was gone.
Then, two days after the funeral, someone rang my doorbell.
When I opened the door, I saw two small boys standing there in dinosaur pajamas.
Jeffrey and George.
My two-year-old twin grandsons.
Behind them stood Vanessa, holding a trash bag.
Without greeting me, she pushed the bag toward my chest.
“I’m not cut out for this poverty stuff,” she said flatly. “I want to live my life.”
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