Three years after my husband’s death, I was asked to donate his heart to his “one true love.”
Three years after I died, my husband, David, was about to marry his terminally ill high school sweetheart, Emily. He showed up at my mom’s house, demanding I sign divorce papers. My mom told him I was dead. David scoffed, impatient. “That’s her game, is it? Pulling this stunt now? Emily’s dying! I just want to be there for her. How can Hannah be so selfish?” He glared at my mom. “Tell her if she doesn’t show up, I’ll cut off your health insurance.” He thought he could use me to manipulate Mom. He didn’t know she’d
already stopped treatment, holding on only to see him regret his actions.
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Three years. It took David three years to
remember me. He was now a hotshot
entrepreneur, and I, a ghost tethered to the
earth by some unfinished business. He stood
on my mom’s porch, surveying the empty
living room. “Get Hannah out here!” he
barked. Mom, frail and worn, simply said, “My
daughter is dead.” David sneered. “Dead?
Someone as self–absorbed as Hannah?
Please. She’s just throwing a tantrum
because Emily’s sick and I’m spending time
with her.” He stormed inside, searching every
room, but I was nowhere to be found.
“Hannah’s dead,” Mom repeated. “If you
want to find her, go to her grave.” David’s
face hardened. “You think this will work? Tell
your daughter if she doesn’t sign the divorce
papers, I’ll cancel your health insurance.” He
papers, I’ll cancel your health insurance.” He
tossed the papers on the table. “Three days.
She signs, then we go to the courthouse. If
not…” His eyes held a chilling coldness I’d
never seen. “You won’t last much longer.” He
slammed the door, leaving me heartbroken.
He’d use my mom’s life to force a divorce.
But Mom’s eyes held a strange peace. She
watched him go, then pulled a photo of me as
a child from a drawer, tracing my face.
“Hannah, honey,” she whispered. “Mom will
be with you soon.”
