My father-in-law, Arthur, was once a titan in real estate—a self-made man who built a seventy-five-million-dollar empire from nothing. But wealth means nothing to cancer. When illness took hold, his son—my husband, Curtis—was suddenly “too busy.” Busy with meetings that never seemed urgent, golf games, and friends who loved the sound of their own voices. He told me watching his father deteriorate was “bad for his mental health,” that he needed to “stay focused.”

So I stepped in.
I cleaned Arthur when he was sick. I sat beside him as morphine blurred his memories and turned his past into half-formed stories. Every morning, I read him the newspaper. In the quiet hours before dawn, when fear tightened its grip, I held his hand. Curtis would stop by occasionally—perfectly groomed—to pat his father’s arm and casually ask, “Did he mention the will today?”

I didn’t want to see what that meant. I believed I loved Curtis. I told myself his distance was grief, not cruelty. I was wrong.The day Arthur passed away, my world collapsed. I had lost a man who had become a father to me. But for Curtis, it was as though life had just opened its doors. At the funeral, he cried—beautifully, convincingly—wiping tears with a silk handkerchief while discreetly sizing up the businessmen in attendance, calculating fortunes by the cut of their suits.