Letting go of that belief felt like grieving. And maybe, in a way, I was. The version of me who married and loved the man sitting in front of me—that woman died.
My focus sharpens again, and I study him. Slumped in the armchair, one side of his face slack and pulled downward, his eyes locked on me. Today, he’s not even a shadow of the man he once was.
That proud man, the one who commanded attention the moment he walked into a room, no longer exists. He’s been receiving the best care money can buy, ensuring he’ll live comfortably for however long he has left.
All of it paid for by our daughter’s husband, Alexander Santoro.
Just thinking his name makes me smile. I thank God every day that Cecily found a love like that. That she didn’t repeat my mistakes. That she was strong where I was weak. That she held her head high and walked away when I chose to stay and endure.
Alexander reached out to me a few months after the transfer. When I told him we could handle the expenses, he insisted. The only thing he asked in return was that I respect the distance Cecily needed, and that I only reach out to her again when I was truly ready to be the mother she deserved.
I agreed. I was exhausted. I let him take over and he’s taken care of everything ever since.
I know he told Cecily eventually.My daughter… I don’t think she’ll ever see me as her mother again. But over time, we’ve had a few tentative meetings.
I attended their wedding, but I didn’t sit in the front row and I didn’t stay for the reception. I didn’t feel like I deserved to. I met the twins when they were just a few months old, and since then, I’ve received holiday cards with pictures of their little family. We talk on the phone occasionally, on specific dates.
And honestly, that’s already more than I deserve. I failed my daughter in more ways than I can count.
I stand, smoothing down my skirt. “Well, I’ve stayed long enough,” I say, looking at Philip. “I have somewhere to be.”
As expected, he starts making a series of garbled sounds.
“What is it,darling?” I ask, dragging out the word. “Do you want me to stay a little longer? Keep you company?”
I tilt my head. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I need to make the most of your retirement money—and all those investments you made—while I still can. You know what they say… bad weeds never die. I might just go before you do.”
I squeeze his shoulders. “Try not to choke on your soup later, alright?”
I walk out of the room, his weak whimpers trailing behind me, and ask the nurse to check on him in case he needs anything.
When I step outside, I take in the Victorian house Alex bought, the one I moved into after leaving my sister’s place. It’s enormous, and fully adapted for Philip’s needs.
I walk down the front steps and get into my sister’s car. She barely gives me time to buckle my seatbelt before shifting into drive.
“Ready to win some money and maybe meet yourself a handsome man today?”
I laugh, like I always do. “We both know you ladies are going to lose to me. And you can keep the handsome man, as always.”
“One of these days, I’ll change your mind.”
I shake my head. If there’s one thing I’m happy to keep my distance from, it’s men. Philip alone was more than enough for a lifetime.
But Emma never gets tired of teasing me. Ever since her husband passed, she’s been living life to the fullest, always saying Greg wouldn’t want her to stop.
As for me, I’m not putting my life on hold. I just finally realized I can be perfectly happy on my own.
As soon as we arrive at Regina’s estate—the millionaire widow hosting today’s game—Emma makes a beeline for the bar. I head straight for the card room to pick the table where I’ll be sitting today.
The Modern American Canasta games happen once a week, almost always at Regina’s house, though sometimes at a hotel. I’ve learned I’m actually very good at the game, and I usually walk away with a decent amount of money.
“I hear you’re the one who cleans everyone out by the end of the night,” a deep voice says behind me.
I turn to find a man who looks to be in his late fifties. He’s tall, with light brown skin, dressed in a tailored navy suit, his sharp hazel eyes watching me with a trace of amusement.
I raise an eyebrow. “And who told you that?” I ask.
That makes him laugh. He tilts his head toward the bar, where my sister is standing, watching us with a smile as she lifts a glass of what I’m fairly sure is orange juice with a generous pour of vodka.
