After my father-in-law’s funeral, my unemployed wife inherited $379 million. Out of nowhere, she asked for a divorce, saying, “You’re no longer of any use to me.” I responded, “Don’t end up regretting this.”

Kimberly hadn’t visited in three weeks. She claimed the smell of the medicine made her nauseous. Her brother and sister, living on opposite coasts, called daily via FaceTime, their faces wet with tears, but Kimberly? She was a ghost, appearing only when she needed a signature on a check.

I was sitting by Arthur’s bedside, reading him the stock reports—his favorite bedtime story—when he suddenly gripped my wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong, fueled by a sudden, desperate clarity.

“Ben,” he wheezed, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering on pavement. “Turn off the monitor. Close the door.”

I did as he asked, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I returned to the chair, Arthur’s eyes were wide, burning with a mix of fury and disappointment.

“I need to tell you something about Kimberly,” he rasped. “She was here yesterday. While you were at the pharmacy.”

“She was?” I was surprised. She hadn’t mentioned it.

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