Then he got sick.
And Charlotte came—not with love, but with duty. Cold hands, colder eyes. She adjusted his pillows like they were evidence. Never once held his hand.
I was the one who read to him at dusk.
Who pressed cool cloths to his brow.
Who memorized the rhythm of his breathing like a sacred hymn.
When he passed, the house didn’t weep.
It held its breath.
The Will and the Weight of a Watch
The lawyer’s office smelled of lemon oil and old paper. Charlotte sat beside me, spine rigid, nails tapping a staccato rhythm on her knee—impatience, impatience, impatience.
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
