I married a man 41 years older than me because of his fortune — after his funeral, his lawyer handed me a box and said, “He made sure you got exactly what you deserved.”
Everyone thought I married Richard for his money.
They weren’t entirely wrong.
I was thirty-two years old, I was drowned in debt and only a lost wage away from running out of apartment.
Richard was seventy-three, he was rich, widowed and alone in a way that wealthy people sometimes try to hide behind marble floors, expensive clocks and huge houses.
We met at a charity dinner where I served champagne.
He asked me what he was calling me.
Then he looked at me and asked:
“Have you been standing up all night? They must hurt your feet.”
It was such a simple question.
But no man had been asking me if I was tired for years.
Three
