He spent hours teaching her chess.
“Think before you act,” he would tell her. “Every choice matters.”
When Emily became sick with a fever, Richard stayed beside her through the night, reading stories and changing the damp cloth on her forehead.
“You should have woken me,” I said.
“You needed sleep,” he answered simply.
Eventually, I stopped searching for a motive behind every kind thing he did.
There was no trap.
There was no demand waiting at the end.
I cared deeply for Richard, though I never truly thought of him as a husband in the ordinary sense.
He felt more like the father I had never had.
And sometimes, when I saw the tenderness in his expression, I wondered whether he had come to think of me as the daughter he never had.
By our fifth year together, his health had begun to fail badly.
Every morning, I brought him coffee exactly as he liked it.
When walking became difficult, I helped him into his wheelchair.
We spent time in the garden each day, talking about Emily, the flowers, and ordinary things while avoiding the subject we both understood.
His time was running out.
When Richard died, I cried beside his bed.
I had lost the kindest man I had ever known.
But after the funeral, one practical thought entered my mind.
I was his wife.
Surely I would inherit the estate.
