The day after I gave my mother-in-law one of my kidneys, my husband placed divorce papers on my hospital bed and told me I had finally completed the only job his family had ever wanted me for.
The door did not squeak when it swung open.
Bromels never made noise when they moved.
Four generations in the mortuary business seemed to have trained the sound out of them.
Thaddius Bromel entered my private hospital room wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that probably cost more than my first car. His silver cuff links gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights. His black shoes reflected the floor.
He looked prepared for a funeral.
Considering what he had come to bury, perhaps that was appropriate.
Under his arm rested a buff-colored legal folder.
He did not kiss my forehead.
