It wasn’t a good time for Beatrice. She found herself dreaming of what she would do if her husband of eleven years would pass away. They had plenty of money. They had drifted apart. She would perhaps go on a world trip. She would buy a new wardrobe just for herself. She would sell the house and buy a property with a little lake. There was so much to dream about.
Of course she knew she shouldn’t indulge in such fantasies. Her husband’s death would be a sad time; a very, very sad time. But wouldn’t it be wonderful to be independent again and do whatever she liked when and where?
It was a Thursday and husband Vaughan was driving home. He had just been to the doctor. “I’m sorry,” said the doctor, “but it’s terminal. I would give you a month at the most.”
Vaughan arrived home. He told Beatrice. Beatrice’s heart missed a beat. “Oh that’s terrible,” she said.