Death of my spouse broke me and my children. Losing our family was a different wound. His mother disconnected us. I saw her bedecked with new money months later. It felt weird. The money came from where? The truth rocked me.
Zach and I were poor yet joyful. God, we were glad. Our room at his family’s home was a palace of laughing, with his deep laugh and our kid Benny’s high-pitched squeals.
I occasionally stood in the kitchen doorway and watched them construct Lego buildings on the living room floor, thinking, “This is it.” This is everything.”
The April wet Tuesday followed.
I was cutting supper veggies when my phone rang. Our 7-year-old son Benny was drawing at the kitchen table, humming.
“Ms. Tiana?” An unknown voice spoke. “This is County Police Officer Ramirez.”
My hand froze mid-slice.
There was an accident.”
The knife dropped. Benny glanced up, crayon above paper.
“Mommy? What’s wrong?
How do you tell your youngster his father won’t return? That Daddy rushed to movie night, made a wrong turn, and is gone forever?
“Your father…” My voice broke as I knelt beside him. Dad had an accident.
Little face crushed. He promised to show us the latest superhero movie tonight.
I said, “I know, baby,” drawing him to me. I know he did.”
The funeral was a flurry of black garments and empty sympathies.
My mother-in-law Doris stood across the cemetery with a stone face. She disapproved of me.
After the final mourners went, she walked on the cemetery lawn.
“He would be alive if he hadn’t been racing home to you two.”
The words slapped. Benny tightened my hand.
“That’s not fair, Doris,” I struggled to speak. “He loved us.”
“And look where that got him.” She looked down at Benny, then up at me. We no longer want you at home. You stole enough from this family.”
Three days later, we packed. Zach’s father calmly watched me pack Benny’s clothing into a bag from the doorway.
Where will we go, Grandpa? Benny inquired, holding his favorite Zachary Gift teddy bear.
Grandfather turned away without replying.
“We’ll find our own place,” I assured Benny trying to grin. “You and me, buddy.”
The cottage was modest but neat, with a little backyard for Benny to play. Rent took half my waitressing paycheck, but seeing my kid chase butterflies in the uneven grass was worth it.
I worked double shifts when possible. After a long night of sore feet, Benny was sleeping on the sofa waiting for me. I’d bring him to bed without waking him, then fall alongside him, too fatigued to weep.
Three months after Zach’s death, I saw Doris.
A shiny black vehicle came into the premium parking place as I left the bargain grocery shop, calculating whether I had enough money for the power bill and Benny’s school supplies.
Doris emerged from the door wearing a luxury coat, large sunglasses on her nose, and high-end shopping bags on her wrist.
I almost dropped groceries. The cashier who spent 20 years counting money looked like she’d walked out of a luxury magazine.
I approached her before reconsidering.
“Doris?”
She stopped when she spotted me, then calmed down.
where did you obtain all this money? I pointed to her clothing and vehicle. You never had these things with Zach. You are a cashier. How did you pay for everything?
Her eyes tightened beneath pricey sunglasses. “It’s none of your business!” she said, slamming her vehicle door.
I stood amid exhaust fumes as she drove away, suspicious.
“That was Grandma, right?” Benny questioned, pulling my sleeve. What makes her stop wanting to see us?
I mustered a grin at my son’s puzzled expression. “Some people don’t know how to handle sadness, honey.”
The Rusty Nail Bar wasn’t my first option for work, but the tips were decent and the late hours let me be there when Benny came home from school.
I was wiping down tables one sluggish Tuesday night when Zach’s absence weighed on my chest like a mountain I couldn’t move.
I removed our lake anniversary picture from my wallet. Sunlight caught in his hair as he laughed.
“Hey, I know him.”
Bartender Max was hovering over my shoulder as I glanced up.
“You do?”
“He came in sometimes. Wait —” His eyes grew. You’re his wife, right? Tiana, yes? He often mentioned you.”
I got a throat lump. “He did?”
Max nodded and entered the booth across from me. “He was so proud of you and your child, always showing us pictures.” His expression turned grim. Heard what occurred. Really sorry.”
“Thanks,” I answered, storing the snapshot.
“So, did his mom give you the money?”
I watched him. “What money?”
Max went from pity to perplexity. The cash. Zach’s funds. He kept it at his mother’s house. mentioned keeping it off the books due to prior debts.” The man leaned in. He must have kept close to 100 thousand there throughout the years.”
The room tilted. “A $100,000? His mother has it?
Yes, her basement. Zach showed me as we were hanging out. Said it was for you and Benny someday.”
Doris’s unexpected money, fashionable clothing, and sports vehicle acquisitions all made sense.
“I’ve gotta go,” I murmured, grabbing my jacket. “Cover me?”
Max nodded with worry. Will you be okay?
I hesitated at the door. “No. I’ll fetch my son’s stuff.”
As we stood in Doris’ clean living room, police officer Sanders, according to his nameplate, appeared uneasy.
“Ma’am, without documentation proving the money belongs to you or your son, we can’t do much,” he said.
Doris crossed her arms, beaming.
“But it was my husband’s money,” I said. It was preserved for us.
“Hearsay,” Doris said. “Zach never told me.”
Officer Sanders sighed. Ms. Tiana, I understand your dilemma. However, possession is nine-tenths of the law in circumstances like this.”
Younger cop partner spoke out after being quiet. “Although I have to say, ma’am,” he said Doris, “I find it pretty shocking that instead of helping your daughter-in-law and grandson, you’d use your dead son’s money for sports cars and fancy clothes
Doris flinched, losing color.
She spat, “Get out.” “All of you.”
As we departed, I saw Zach in the family portraits on the wall. His grin, like Benny’s, followed me out the door.
“I’m sorry,” Officer Sanders remarked as we approached the police vehicle. “The law doesn’t always match what’s right.”
I nodded numbly. “Thanks for trying.”
That night, I cuddled Benny close on our worn sofa as a children’s movie played on our used TV.
He wiggled, “Mommy, why are you squeezing me so tight?”
Loosed grasp. Sorry, dear. Love you very much.”
He whirled to face me. “Are you thinking about Daddy?”
Kind of. Benny, promise?
“What, Mommy?”
“Promise to never let money change your identity… hope you’ll always be nice, even when it’s hard.”
His little face turned stern. “Like how Daddy always gave the park homeless man his sandwich?”
My eyes watered. Just like that.”
“I promise,” he responded firmly, “But Mommy? Can we have ice cream occasionally without much money?
I laughed through tears. Yes, baby. We can buy ice cream.”
***
A knock at the door disrupted our simple mac and cheese breakfast two days later.
When I opened it, I saw at least a dozen neighbors from our tiny neighborhood, some I’d just nodded to before.
Mrs. Patel from next door advanced. “Tiana, we heard about your mother-in-law.”
Mr. Greene, the retired teacher across the street, held an envelope behind her. Small town rumor spreads quickly. What she did was wrong.”
“We took up a collection,” remarked another. “It’s not much, but…
Mrs. Patel handed me a big packet. “We take care of our staff. Everyone feels like family here.”
When Benny glanced behind my legs, I was dumbfounded.
I can’t— I tried to return it. This is excessive.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Greene said. “We’ve all been unlucky.”
“Please,” Mrs. Patel whispered. For the boy.”
Seeing their sincere expressions made my chest release for the first time since Zach died.
Could you all come in for tea? Stepping away, I asked. “And we have cookies, Benny?”
My youngster nodded eagerly. ‘I can show everyone my dinosaur collection!
I saw Mrs. Patel eyeing me as they filled our little cottage with warmth and conversation.
“You’re not alone,” she remarked directly. Remember that.”
“Thank you,” I nodded, tearfully.
A week passed. I fixed Benny’s bike and paid our late power bill using neighbor money. I saved the remainder for emergencies.
Then another knock.
Doris appeared on my doorstep with a huge luggage. I saw my old blouse and pants instead of luxury attire. She seemed tiny.
What you want? I inquired, my voice ice-cold.
“May I enter?”
I paused, then left.
She looked about our little living room at the discarded furniture and the walls Benny and I painted.
She continued, “Someone posted a picture of me with my new car online,” eventually. “Called me a monster for stealing from my dead son’s family. It expanded worldwide.”
I remained silent.
“I sold the car,” she said, thrusting the money briefcase toward me. Plus other stuff. Zach preserved some things, but… Swallowed hard. “You should’ve always had it.”
The luggage and then her caught my attention. “Why did you? He was your son.”
She lost her cool. Because I was mad! Because he loved you more than me. Because…” She paused, shoulders drooping. “Because I’m a selfish old woman who couldn’t handle grief.”
She exited, halting at the entrance. “If you can forgive me someday, I’d like to know my grandson.”
She left before I could respond, leaving me with a bag of second chances.
Mrs. Patel stared coldly at Doris through the glass. Other neighbors left their houses with arms crossed and judgmental looks.
Money buys security, comfort, and piece of mind. However, it cannot restore time or trust. It gave us a fresh start.
We made our cottage a home and invited our neighbors over for supper to thank them for their hospitality. I took night courses to graduate. We had ice cream. Lots of stuff.
What about Doris? My forgiveness for her is incomplete. Maybe I never will be.
I sometimes sense Zach gazing over us when doing clothes or helping Benny with schoolwork. I hear his chuckle in Benny’s voice and our boy tilts his head while pondering, much like his father.
In such times, I know Zach’s greatest legacy wasn’t money in a basement. Love was powerful enough to establish a community when we needed it.
The most expensive sports vehicle in the world cannot purchase that.
