The Wife They Buried Too Soon

"To my husband, Daniel, I leave absolutely nothing."

I spoke the words to the empty, dim hospital recovery room, my voice flat and dry as crushed bone. I was thirty-eight years old, rehearsing my will while recovering from the car crash my husband had orchestrated to kill me.

"To my daughter, Mia," I whispered, staring at the flickering fluorescent light above my head. "I leave the exact same."

A monitor beeped next to my head, a steady, mocking rhythm.

"To my sister, Grace," I continued, testing the strength of my vocal cords. "I leave the debts. All of them."

My ribs throbbed, a sharp reminder of the crash nine days ago. Daniel had been driving my Audi. When we hit the concrete embankment, his seatbelt held firm, locking him safely in the driver's seat. Mine gave way instantly. I remembered the strange, hollow give in the buckle the night before, the way it refused to fasten with its usual solid snap. Daniel had borrowed my car that evening to run an errand. He made sure he was secure. He made sure I flew straight toward the windshield.

I shifted on the thin mattress, the rough sheets scraping my bare legs. An hour ago, I had finally dragged myself out of the dark void of the ICU. I couldn't move my arms at first. I could only listen.

The adjoining family room door stood cracked open.

"Dad, when does Mom's insurance and the house clear?"

Mia stood just out of sight. My sweet, eighteen-year-old daughter. I had spent the last decade driving her to ballet, baking cupcakes for her school bake sales, and holding her hair back when she was sick. Now, her tone held no grief, no tremble of fear. She sounded like she was asking about the delivery time of a pizza.

"It takes time, Mia," Daniel's voice crackled through the phone's speaker. "The doctors say she's completely unresponsive. We just have to wait for the final medical declaration."

"Don't wait," Mia snapped, pacing across the hard floor. Her sneakers squeaked against the tiles. "Aunt Grace already moved in."

My heart monitor spiked, a frantic, rapid tempo betraying my stillness.

Grace. My younger sister. The woman I had bailed out of credit card debt three times in the last five years.

"Grace is just helping with the transition," Daniel said. His tone softened, carrying a warmth he hadn't directed at me in years. "She's organizing the house."

"She moved her clothes into the master bedroom, Dad," Mia argued. "I saw her unpacking her jewelry on Mom's vanity this morning. She threw Mom's expensive face creams in the trash. She's acting like she owns the place."

"Keep your voice down," Daniel warned. "Where are the nurses?"

"Down the hall at the station. Nobody is paying attention to us. They think Mom is a vegetable anyway."

"Good. Just let the paperwork push through," Daniel instructed. "If your mother wakes up brain-damaged, the medical bills are going to eat the entire payout. We need the declaration signed by Friday. The lawyer is already drafting the transfer deeds."

"She won't wake up, right?" Mia asked.