Nobody in the neighborhood could quite predict what Mrs. Whitaker had planned after her husband’s passing, but the signs were there—unfamiliar deliveries, hushed phone calls, and a spark of mischief in her eyes that hinted this farewell wouldn’t be ordinary.
After Mr. Whitaker’s cremation, Mrs. Whitaker wasted no time. Once the ashes were returned, she arranged the urn carefully on the dining table, her movements precise, almost ceremonial. Leaning in, she spoke softly, conspiratorially, as if he could still hear her.
“Remember that fur coat you promised me?” she murmured, a glint of triumph in her eyes. “Picked it up. Insurance covered it, naturally.”
“And the car,” she continued, tilting her head with a sly smile. “Your final promise. Also paid for. All of it, courtesy of… well, you know who.”
Then she leaned even closer to the urn, lowering her voice into a whisper thick with ironic satisfaction. “And the favor I swore I’d collect someday? Consider it done.”
Conclusion
Married life, Mrs. Whitaker thought, had been a ledger of unkept promises and quiet disappointments. But staring at the urn, she felt a darkly humorous sense of triumph. Harold was gone, and with him, any lingering debts or excuses. In the end, the final chapter belonged entirely to her.