Bernice Franklin
Thirty days have passed since the death of my formerly beloved ex-husband. While I wasn’t specifically invited to the funeral—in fact I wasn’t even notified of his death—officially—I felt it only fitting that I attend. After all, who spent more years with him? Heidi or yours truly? Besides, it would give me a chance to see all my three children together again, as they are geographically scattered.
Oh, those dear ones of mine, adults and yet not adults, as whose children ever grow up, I never asked them to take sides, never said it’s either me or your father. Should I have? Perhaps I was afraid of what their replies would be, due to Daddy being Dr. Money Bags. Perhaps, as a cardiologist, he should have been more attuned to his own arrhythmia. Who knew being shackled and straddled would bring on not only la petite mort but also the grand buffo of a heart attack? Did Heidi even have the presence of mind to untie him before she called 911? No. She did not. Someone should have gotten after whoever in the police leaked that delicate information, photos to follow. On the other hand—
I suppose I should be sad for him. He had such a short time to enjoy his new wife, his new life. But since I myself experienced cardiac arrest when I opened the door to what I thought was the plumber only to be delivered divorce papers, my sympathies lie elsewhere. With myself.
The upshot of the divorce: I ended up impoverished, what do you think? I was totally blindsided, didn’t get a lawyer immediately because I was sure we could work it out, as we’d always done before, because Heidi wasn’t the first. So-bank account gone, despite court order, house on the market before I could wonder if anyone wanted Grandma’s dishes. (No one did.)
Is there a bright side to this? Why, yes, there is. Because Dr. Money Bags didn’t change the beneficiary to his life insurance policy. Poor Heidi claimed an oversight, but there was my name in black and white! So, while I’m still working part-time at the local library, serving the public as only I know how, I now no longer have to worry as the end of the month approaches. Can I pay my bills? Yes, I can.
I won’t let my sorrow at a life lost, my life of financial comfort and community status, overthrow me. Bitterness comes with its own cost. So I will ignore the fact that after the divorce, I was excluded from the hospital’s women’s auxiliary, as they planned the yearly rummage sale. After all, when I was involved, I always found it more than annoying. Too many women wanted their names on the program, but never did the work involved in making the rummage sale a success. As far as working at the library, I’ve seen women with whom I used to have coffee, turn away when I handled the reception desk. There but for the grace of god—
Actually, despite the snubs of former acquaintances, I have a whole new circle of friends, work friends, but friends just the same. After Covid, we’re finally back in business, some of us wearing masks, while others take their chances with whatever new wave is coming our way. We gossip both about our patrons and one another, we go out to lunch, we commute together when the weather is bad. It’s not the life I had, but it’s still a life that I find rewarding, except when I’m alone at night and realize I shall always be alone for the rest of my life.
I suppose that’s why I’ve taken to bugging my kids. Because what’s a mother for?