The first thing I noticed about Felicia that afternoon was her shoes. They were polished midnight leather with crimson soles, sharp enough to puncture oak floors if she stepped with too much force.
She marched through my foyer five days after we buried my husband, her heels clicking against the timber I had waxed for twenty years. It felt as though his passing was merely a social engagement she had meticulously dressed for.
I knew the price of those shoes because I had seen the statement back in April when my husband, Arthur, asked me to help him organize the files. They cost fifteen hundred dollars, which was more than I earned in a month back when our son, Derek, was small.
In those days, Arthur drove a battered work truck with no heating and we counted every cent to make ends meet. Felicia stood in my parlor now, scanning my drapes and the wedding porcelain I kept in the hutch with a cold, analytical eye.
“Now that the service is finished, we need to be realistic,” she said, her voice devoid of any warmth. “Cry all you want, but start packing your bags and go find a spot on the pavement.”
She didn’t lower her volume or show a hint of shame as she spoke those words. She didn’t even glance at the photo of Arthur on the mantle, where the funeral roses were already wilting at the edges.
My son stood behind her with his hands buried in the pockets of an overcoat that cost more than my first car. At forty years old, he had broad shoulders and receding hair, yet he looked like the terrified boy who once broke a lamp and waited for my judgment.
But he wasn’t a child anymore, and this time he remained silent while his wife attempted to evict me from my own life. My sister, Brenda, was perched in Arthur’s favorite wingback chair like a spectator at a high-stakes trial.
Brenda had traveled from Scottsdale for the funeral, wearing a cloud of heavy perfume and a performance of grief that shifted depending on who was watching. She crossed her legs and watched me, waiting for the moment I would finally lose my composure.
