People hugged me and whispered prayers.
Vanessa cried loudly through most of the service. At the time, I believed her grief was real. I had no reason to think otherwise.
I didn’t know that was the last day she would pretend.
Two days after the funeral, my daughter-in-law (DIL) rang my doorbell.
I barely spoke to anyone.
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When I opened the door, my two-year-old twin grandsons stood there in their pajamas.
Jeffrey clutched a stuffed dinosaur, and George stood beside him with his thumb in his mouth.
Behind them sat a black trash bag stuffed with clothes.
Vanessa shoved the bag toward me.
“I’m not cut out for this poverty stuff,” she said. “I want to live my life.”
Vanessa shoved the bag toward me.
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I stared at her. “Vanessa… these are your children.”
“They’re better off with you,” she said flatly. “You don’t have much else to do, anyway.”
Then she turned around, climbed into her car, and drove away.
