The Third Document

My husband’s hand was still warm when I realized he was gone.

For thirty-one years, that hand had been my anchor.

I had held it when our children were born. When we bought our first house. When his father died. When we celebrated anniversaries with cheap champagne because money was tight.

And now I was holding it in a hospital room while machines went silent around us.

His name was Daniel.

My husband.

My best friend.

At least, that was what I believed.

Three weeks later, I sat at a long conference table in an attorney’s office with our two children, Megan and Tyler.