The Bank Letter That Proved My Wife’s Funeral Was a Lie

It should have been the easiest part of the trip.

Knock on Clara Whitmore’s door.

Ask why her phone was disconnected.

Sit at her kitchen table with the bag of chocolates and coffee I had brought.

Sort out the bank paperwork.

Maybe stay an hour, maybe two.

Drive home with the familiar ache of grief, but also with the quiet satisfaction that I had done the decent thing again.

Instead, I sat in my car at the curb and stared at a house that looked as if it had shed its old skin.

The place I remembered had been tired.

Flaking white paint.