He nodded and closed his eyes.
That was six weeks ago.
Now, four days after the funeral, I sat in the living room with my phone in my hand and started dialing.
Naomi first. She answered on the second ring.
“Mom.”
“Four days from now,” I said. “Warren’s office downtown. Ten a.m.”
“What’s this about your father’s will?”
Silence. Then: “I’ll be there.”
I called Rosalind, Celeste, Violet, Aurelia. All five said the same thing.
“I’ll be there.”
Of course they would. They wanted to know how much they were getting.
I hung up and set the phone down.
Four days to prepare.
I looked at the stack of twenty-five envelopes on the dining table.
“Let’s see if they care now,” I whispered.
But there was one more night I needed to remember. The night he left.
Harrison passed at 2:47 in the morning on a Tuesday. I was the only one there. The bedroom was dark except for the small lamp on the nightstand—soft yellow light, just enough to see his face.
He was lying in our bed, the same bed we’d shared for fifty-two years. I sat beside him in the chair I’d pulled up three weeks earlier. I hadn’t moved it since.
His breathing had been shallow for hours. In and out. In and out. Each breath slower than the last.
I held his hand. It was cold.
I didn’t call our daughters. Even if I had, they wouldn’t have made it in time. Naomi was in New York. Rosalind in Chicago. Celeste in Seattle. Violet in Austin. Aurelia in Portland.
By the time any of them booked a flight, it would be over. So I sat alone.
Around 2:30, his breathing changed—slower, longer pauses between each breath. I leaned forward.
“Harrison,” I whispered.
His eyes opened just barely. He looked at me.
“Did you finish the letters?” he asked.
His voice was so quiet, I almost didn’t hear him.
“Yes,” I said.
“Will it work?”
I didn’t know how to answer, so I told him the truth.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded, just a little. Then he asked the question I’d been dreading.
“Promise me you’ll try.”
I squeezed his hand. “I promise.”
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he smiled—just a small one, barely there, but it was enough.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too.”
He closed his eyes. And then, at 2:47, he took one last breath and stopped.
I sat there for a long time—twenty minutes, maybe. I didn’t move. I didn’t cry. I just sat there holding his hand, watching his chest, waiting to see if maybe, just maybe, he’d breathe again.
He didn’t.
I wasn’t crying—not because I didn’t love him, but because I didn’t have time to grieve.
I had work to do.
At 3:10, I let go of his hand, stood up, walked downstairs to the kitchen, and picked up the phone.
I called the doctor first. The hospice nurse had told me to call when it happened. The doctor arrived thirty minutes later, checked Harrison, signed the paperwork.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
I nodded. I didn’t say anything.
Next, I called the funeral home. They said they’d send someone in the morning.
Then I called Warren Ashford.
“It’s Vivien,” I said when he answered. “He’s gone.”
Warren was quiet for a moment. “Then I’ll start the arrangements. The reading is in four days.”
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