PART 2 — The Watch on His Wrist
Brenda turned toward me so fast that her sunglasses fell into the sand. “No, Sarah. Never. I swear to you, Thomas and I were never romantically involved.”
“Then why are you acting like you’ve betrayed me?” Her voice cracked. “Because I let you suffer when I knew something that could have changed your life.”
She asked for my phone, held it at arm’s length, and took the photograph. I didn’t smile. In the picture, Brenda looked like someone saying goodbye, and I looked like someone who’d just discovered the ground beneath her wasn’t solid.
I couldn’t sleep that night. The rented cottage was silent except for the ceiling fan and distant waves. Around two, I went downstairs for water and found Brenda at the kitchen table reading a message on her phone. She flipped the screen over when she saw me, but not before I caught the sender’s name: Alan Cooper. Attorney.
“Is this about Thomas’s estate?” I asked. Brenda stared at the table. “Yes.” “Then why does your attorney know more about my husband’s affairs than I do?” “He’s Thomas’s attorney too. He handled documents I promised to protect.”
I pulled out a chair. “You need to understand something. I’ve spent fourteen months losing pieces of my life. If you’ve been making decisions about me without telling me, I deserve an explanation.” She nodded, eyes filling. “You’re right. And tomorrow, I’m going to give you one. I just need the final records confirmed first.”
The next morning we flew back to Pennsylvania. Brenda barely spoke, and I watched her check her phone again and again. When we landed, I had a voicemail from Martha. “Sarah, we’re having a dedication ceremony this afternoon for the new Thomas Adams Memorial Heart Wing,” she said in the polished voice she used with strangers. “It’s a family occasion, and we think it would be better if you didn’t attend. You’ve been emotional lately, and we don’t want anything uncomfortable happening.” She paused before the second blow. “Greg’s attorney will also be sending paperwork about the Pine Road house. You should begin considering other living arrangements.”
I replayed it twice. They were naming a hospital wing after my husband, and his own widow wasn’t welcome. Worse, they were threatening the house Thomas and I had lived in for twenty years. “They can’t do that,” I whispered. Brenda lifted my suitcase off the carousel. “They’ve been planning it for months.”
I spun toward her. “You knew?” “I knew about the ceremony. I also knew Greg was trying to claim control of the house.” “And you didn’t tell me?” “I was waiting for the ownership records and estate filings to be confirmed. Alan has everything ready now.”
Anger rose through my exhaustion. “You keep saying you’re protecting me, but nobody seems interested in telling me what’s happening to my own life.” Brenda accepted it without defending herself, then held out her car keys. “Come to the hospital with me. After today, you can decide whether you ever want to see me again.”
The hospital atrium was packed when we arrived. A large banner announced the dedication of the Thomas Adams Memorial Heart Wing, and a covered bronze plaque stood beside the podium. Martha sat in the front row wearing pearls. Greg stood near the hospital director, smiling as he greeted local officials and businesspeople.
His wife, Kelly, wore an expensive coat and carried a designer handbag that looked worth more than my monthly salary. I thought of the tools I’d sold to pay my bills while they stood there celebrating a donation supposedly made in my husband’s name.
Martha saw me first. Her smile tightened. “Sarah, I specifically asked you not to come. This is an important day for the Adams family.” “Thomas was my husband,” I replied. “I’m part of his family.”
Kelly gave a dismissive laugh. “Today is about the people who actually built his legacy. Please don’t make it about yourself.”
Greg approached, already irritated. “You’re embarrassing yourself. We can discuss your housing situation privately.” He raised his hand to signal an usher.
His jacket sleeve slipped back. And there, gleaming under the atrium lights, was a steel watch with a deep navy-blue dial. My anniversary gift. The watch Greg had told me was lost the day Thomas died.
I grabbed Brenda’s arm. “Look at his wrist,” I whispered. She followed my gaze, and her expression changed. “Sarah,” she said quietly, “I think it’s time we stopped letting him tell you what belongs to you.”
