By 7:00 in the morning, my mother-in-law had already told me three things.
That Daniel had always wanted to be buried in the family plot upstate, that the funeral home her family had used for generations required a significant deposit, and that she assumed I would be handling the financial arrangements.
“He was your son,” my sister said flatly.
My mother-in-law looked at her as if she had spoken out of turn.
“She is his wife. She has access to the accounts. We don’t.”
That was true.
I did have access to the accounts.
I had built those accounts.
Every direct deposit, every automatic transfer, every carefully maintained emergency fund that was mine.
Daniel had worked freelance for the last four years.
Design, consulting, inconsistent income.
I had never complained.
I had simply structured our finances to function on my salary alone and treated anything he contributed as a bonus.
“I’ll take care of what needs to be taken care of,” I said. “Give me some time.”
They gave me until noon.
