My Wife's Faked Death

At sixty-six, lying in a hospice bed, my breath a shallow rasp, I faced the end of a lifetime of thankless labor. My estranged daughter stood by, refusing eye contact, when she announced, "You have a visitor."

The door opened, and in walked a woman older, impeccably dressed-my wife, Jenny, who had supposedly died in a fiery car crash forty years ago.

She thanked me for raising Stella and caring for her parents, then offered a condescending "donation" to cover my burial costs.