My Wife's Faked Death

d the end of a lifetime of thankless labor. My estranged daughter stoo

mpeccably dressed-my wife, Jenny, who had suppo

ng "donation" to cover my burial costs. The betrayal, forty years old, ripped through me

dark, and the monitor beside my

nds calloused and young. I wasn' t in a hospice; I was in my ow

dead. This time, I' d