They Drank My Father’s Champagne and Toasted My Death. They Forgot Whose Daughter I Am

That was the thing that finally cut the last thread of grief for the marriage I’d thought I had.

You cannot mourn a thing that never existed.

There had been no husband to lose — only this, a man at a rail in a storm, thanking a bank account for its cooperation.

“Wait,” I said.

He stopped.

I felt him go still with surprise, and then I heard the cruelty come into his voice, unhurried, enjoying itself.

“What was that, sweetheart?

Do you have some last words?”