I married an older woman for money—after her funeral, her lawyer handed me a box that revealed what I truly signed up for

from the stove. “Evie?”

She gripped the counter. Her mouth moved, but no words came out.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Her knees buckled.

I caught her before her head hit the floor.

At the hospital, a doctor with tired eyes found me.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Her heart failed.”

“She was just eating jam,” I whispered.

The funeral was three days later. I wore the coat she continue reading …