Choice.
At nineteen, someone had decided Walter and I could not choose each other.
At seventy-three and seventy-five, he asked again.
And this time I had answered for myself.
Yes.
I sat beside that old porch swing and cried until there was almost nothing left.
Then Samuel said:
“There is one more thing.”
I groaned.
“Walter was an exhausting man.”
“He was.”
Samuel handed me a folder.
Financial documents.
I immediately pushed it back.
“I don’t want his children’s money.”
“It isn’t their money.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Read it.”
Walter’s estate was substantial.
Not enormous.
He had done well as a structural engineer, invested carefully and inherited part of his father’s business interests years earlier.
Most of his estate had already been placed into trusts for his children and grandchildren before he contacted me.
That was important.
Our marriage had not displaced them.
The garage and everything inside it had been transferred into a separate trust years earlier.
