My dear lady, you are the sole beneficiary in my will. I have provided my daughter with everything she needs, so she will have no claims against you, Edward Whitaker said, kissing my hand and handing me the document.
The words warmed me, and I held Edward, my English husband, in even higher esteem. I thought contracts and insurance unnecessary; I trusted in his decency and kindness. How foolish that trust was
I had met Edward through an online correspondence. I yearned to marry a foreigner. I lived in Newcastle, retired and unable to find a peerage partner. The idea of caring for a frail old man at home repelled me. Abroad, the elderly seemed lively, spry, even wandering on holiday.
Edward was seventysix; I was fiftyfive. I was the same age as his daughter Emily. Our letters continued for a year, slowly peeling back layers, testing temperaments.
Soon I flew to England, to the town of York, with a single purposeto wed Edward. An imposing, wellkept gentleman greeted me, clutching a modest bouquet of wilted roses. I felt an urge to turn back, but the performance had just begun. The tired roses lay in my hands, scentless.
Edward drove me to his grand house and ushered me inside. A modest twoperson lunch awaited. I asked for a vase for the sad roses; he handed me a glass of water. The moment I placed the flowers inside, every petal fell away, as if the universe signaled something else.
Both of us understood that love was not the aim. I needed financial security; Edward needed a companion to tend to his needs. Two lonely, middleaged souls had found a convenient match.
He promised to leave me his entire estate when he passed. As often happens, a promise is not a deed.
We were married soon after, and I became Mrs. Morley. The ceremony was simple, attended only by Edwards daughter Emily with her husband and three children, and a familiar couple of friends.
I was Edwards third wife. In his first marriage he had twin daughtersFrances and Emily. Though he had once declared he would never have children, his first wife defied him, giving birth to the twins. He adored the girls, yet resented his wifes defiance.
When the twins turned eighteen, Edward dramatically left the family. His wife could not survive his departure; two years later she died in her sleep. All his propertya threestorey house, a country cottage, three cars, and his businesswent to the daughters. He even transferred the company to Frances.
Edward later found an older woman, never interested in children, seven years his senior. Their life seemed smooth until his elderly wife fell ill. Edward tended to her tenderly, massaging, feeding, even changing her diapers until she passed.
Soon after, tragedy struck again: Frances was found dead by the roadside under mysterious circumstances. No killer was ever identified.
Left alone in bitter solitude, Edward fell into depression. Throughout this dark time his daughter Emily never visited. After some grieving, Edward decided he must marry again, his spirit revived by the vigor of online dating. Thus, I entered his life.
Married life as Mrs. Morley began.
All the money belonged to Edward. He appeared miserly, allocating the smallest amount for groceries, scrutinising every receipt, demanding written accounts for any purchase. When I asked for a new pair of pins or a lipstick, he grimaced as if hed swallowed a lemon. Yet, each year we did travelcruises and tours were his lifelong dream.
I treated Edward kindly, felt pity for his age, learned to cook his favourite dishes, watched over his health, staying by his side in both sorrow and joy.
Then a cruel illness struck. He suffered a stroke; an ambulance rushed him to intensive care. I called his daughter immediately. She arrived not for her father, but for me:
Lucy, Ive brought Fathers will. Listen: All movable and immovable property I bequeath to my daughter. To my wife, an amount to be determined by my daughter for a decent living.
It meant Edward, secretly, had rewritten the will in his daughters favour. He had always felt uneasy, guilty toward his daughters, convinced he bore indirect responsibility for Francess death.
Emily, harboring resentment, never came to see us. Edward never met his three grandchildren.
I had assumed that after hearing about the will I would stay beside my ailing husband. Edward was still alive, while his daughter fluttered about the revised inheritance.
For six months I cared for Edward in the hospital, feeding him from a spoon, gently stroking his hand, talking to him. He understood nothing, recognized no one, living in his own world. I had no desire to quarrel with Edward over his entrepreneurial daughters claim. Emily never visited. Edward was eightytwo when death finally claimed him.
On the doorstep of the house I shared with Edward, Emily appeared:
Lucy, you must leave this house at once. Ill give you enough money for a cheap room, then youll get council housing. Id return to my own country if I were you. You have nothing here.
I imagined myself shivering on the street, cold and hungry.
Dont tell me what to do, Emily. Im still grieving your fathers death. Speak to me later, I replied, bewildered.
Six months later, lawyers warned me that suing would be futile and would drain me of astronomical legal costs. Though, as a wife, I was entitled to fifty percent of the inheritance, the rewritten will nullified that right.
I still lived in Edwards house, a fact that infuriated Emily:
Get out, Lucy. Not only have you moored an old, senile father, but you wont be evicted! Hand over the inheritance! Thats all youll get!
Then a spark of hope struck me. I pulled a crumpled paper from the desk:
Emily, here is the original will where, according to Edward, everything belongs to me. I can prove in court that, while suffering from senile dementia, he did not understand the changes he made. Perhaps he signed under duress. Prove it later
Emily fell silent, deep in thought.
Thus I spent some time in a modest flat in a cheap part of York, driving Edwards car, surviving on the meagre funds I managed to scrape from Emily.
Now I am married to Peter. He noticed me in the park while walking his dog, and I ran there daily for exercise, keeping fit. Peter, a widower, was enchanted by me. Englishmen, they say, have a soft spot for women of Slavic bearing.
And so the dream continues, a strange, looping tapestry of promises, wills, and the echo of wilted roses.
