The Good Widow

by Liz Fenton

Those women obviously understand how the world works much better than I do. Their husbands may resent the hell out of them, but they are home safe, while mine has just been delivered to a columbarium at the Good Shepherd Cemetery.

“God, Jacks! How can you say that? That because you didn’t greet him at the door in a kimono holding a martini, you deserve this? Marriage is fucking hard. We all make mistakes, and a lot of them. But that doesn’t mean bad things should happen to us as a result.”

And when you fuck up like that, sometimes it’s easier to let the guilt fester in the darkness of your soul, rather than bring it out in the light.

The parts of him I miss the most were gone long before he was.

A man generally doesn’t go out and have an affair for the hell of it, if he’s happy with his wife.

I’d quickly noticed that giving material gifts came easy for my mother-in-law—it was offering the emotional ones she seemed to struggle with.

Because I’ve figured out a funny little secret about life: Even if you stay on the sidewalks and pay your bills on time and use hand sanitizer, bad things still happen. Yes, maybe you can cut your odds by playing it safe. By attempting to predict each and every possible pitfall. But your fate will still find you, no matter how much you hide from it.