Chapter 1: The Final Discard
“You’re worthless. I don’t need you anymore, you worthless woman.”
Derek’s voice echoed through our living room in Fort Wayne, Indiana, as he threw my suitcase down the front steps. It landed with a dull thud on the concrete, the zipper bursting slightly to reveal a tangle of my clothes. I stood there, stunned, watching fifteen years of marriage crumble in the span of ten minutes. My face was still hot from the tears I’d been shedding since he’d started packing my belongings with the enthusiasm of someone finally getting rid of unwanted clutter.
My name is Joanna, and at forty-two years old, I never imagined I’d find myself homeless because my husband had suddenly decided he was too good for me. Theodore, his father, had passed away just three days earlier, and Derek was already acting like he owned the world.
“I’m rich now, Joanna. Seventy-five million dollars!” Derek shouted, his face flushed with excitement as he stood in our doorway, hands on his hips. “I don’t need some waitress dragging me down anymore. I’m going to live like a king.”
The cruelty in his voice cut deeper than any physical blow could have. For fifteen years, I had worked double shifts at Miller’s Diner to keep us afloat while Derek bounced between part-time jobs, claiming he was “finding himself” or “waiting for the right opportunity.” I had paid our mortgage, bought our groceries, and even covered his car payments when his employment was inconsistent—which was most of the time.
“Derek, please,” I whispered, my hands shaking as I picked up the suitcase. “We’ve been together for fifteen years. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
He laughed, a harsh, barking sound that made my stomach turn. “It means I wasted fifteen years being held back by someone who wasn’t good enough for me. Theodore always knew I’d amount to something great. That’s why he left me everything.”
As I stood on the sidewalk watching him close the door of what had been our home, I felt something inside me break. But it wasn’t just heartbreak. There was something else brewing—a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispering that Derek might be celebrating a little too early.
Theodore had always been kind to me, often more so than his own son. And I had spent countless hours caring for him in his final months, while Derek complained about the burden.
Chapter 2: The Caregiver
The relationship with Theodore had been one of the few bright spots in my marriage. While Derek treated his father like an inconvenience, I had genuinely cared for the old man. After Theodore’s first stroke two years ago, I was the one who drove him to physical therapy appointments when Derek was “too busy” playing video games. I cooked his favorite meals, helped him with his medication, and spent hours listening to his stories about building his construction empire from nothing.
“You’re a good woman, Joanna,” Theodore had told me just a week before he passed.
We were sitting on his back porch, watching the sunset paint the Indiana sky in strokes of orange and purple. Derek was inside, probably on his phone, ignoring us both.
“You remind me of my wife, God rest her soul. She had the same kindness in her heart.”
I had smiled and patted his weathered hand. “You don’t need to thank me, Theodore. You’re family.”
The old man had looked at me with those sharp blue eyes that age hadn’t dimmed. “Family isn’t always about blood, dear. Sometimes it’s about who shows up when it matters.”
At the time, I thought it was just the wisdom of an elderly man reflecting on life. I never imagined those words would prove prophetic.
Derek’s attitude toward his father’s declining health had been embarrassing. He complained constantly about the smell of medications, the inconvenience of appointments, and the way Theodore’s presence cramped his style. More than once, I caught Derek rolling his eyes when his father struggled with simple tasks or needed help getting around.
“Why can’t he just go to one of those homes?” Derek had grumbled to me after Theodore had a particularly difficult day following his second stroke. “I didn’t sign up to be a caregiver.”
“He’s your father,” I had replied, shocked by his callousness. “And this is his house. We’re living here because he invited us to stay after you lost your job at the warehouse.”
Derek had shrugged, already turning his attention back to his phone. “Whatever. Once he’s gone, this place will be mine anyway. Then we can do whatever we want with it.”
The memory of that conversation now felt like a premonition. Theodore had witnessed his son’s indifference and had clearly drawn his own conclusions about Derek’s character. I remembered the way the old man’s face had fallen when Derek made those comments, though he never said anything directly.
Now, as I sat in my car in the parking lot of a budget motel, staring at the forty-three dollars in my wallet, I wondered if Theodore had seen something in those final months that the rest of us had missed.
Chapter 3: The Funeral
