For thirty-eight years, my husband went to the same bank every Tuesday. Same branch, same hour, same tie. If I asked where he’d been, he’d say, “Just an errand,” and kiss my forehead like that ended the topic. I let it end. Marriage has its quiet corners. You don’t always shine a flashlight into them.
He died on a Monday. By Thursday, the bank manager called. He didn’t start with condolences. He started with instructions. “Mrs. Hale… your husband left a directive. He asked that you come in alone.”
I drove there with my hands tight on the wheel, feeling foolish for being nervous about a bank.
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