At 8:40 he got in the shower. The second the water started, I went into the study.
Old bills and tax paperwork were piled up behind the printer. A black folder sat at the back, pinned down by a box. I was looking for the credit card statements. I found the insurance policy first.
Life insurance. $2,000,000.
The suicide exclusion period had already run out.
Under it, the most recent beneficiary confirmation. Daniel, sole beneficiary.
My signature was on the last line. Every letter looked traced off an old document. Perfect, and cold.
I never signed it.
The date was six months ago. Third week after the crash.
I remember those weeks. Lying in bed, the lawn outside going green, then white, then green again. Daniel holding the “recovery meds” and the water to my mouth every day. I thought I was getting better. Turns out I couldn’t even remember signing my own name.
