The morning sun was shyly peeking through the thin curtains of my bedroom when I woke. At sixty‑eight, my joints did the waking for me—an ache here, a stiffness there—before any alarm could. I’d grown used to it, just as I’d grown used to the silence of the big house and the absence of anyone asking, “How did you sleep, Irma?”
I swung my legs out of bed and walked to the window.
My house sits on a quiet street in Buchanan, a small town where everyone knows everyone, and yet few are truly interested in anyone’s life. I pulled back the curtain and looked out over my manicured garden. The roses were already blooming—bright, reliable, faithful.
They never disappointed me. Unlike my son, Noel. Even saying his name in my head, I felt that familiar mix of love and bitterness.
My only child—soon forty‑four. The boy I’d lived for, worked for, saved every extra dollar for. The man who now barely found time to call once a month.
In the kitchen I put the kettle on. My movements were precise and deliberate, the result of a lifetime in numbers. Thirty‑five years as chief accountant at Buchanan Industries had taught me the value of precision, order, and the proper allocation of resources.
Those skills came in handy when, twelve years ago after retiring, I decided to invest. People called me crazy. “Irma, at your age it’s time to take a vacation, not risk money,” my friend Rose said.
I hadn’t listened. Numbers have a language; I knew how to read it. Modest savings—about three hundred thousand and the insurance from my husband’s death—became a fortune.
Thirteen million dollars. I still couldn’t say the number aloud without feeling light‑headed. I told no one.
Even Rose only knew I was “comfortable.” In a town like ours, if folks discovered that the lowly widow Irma Abbott was a multi‑millionaire, the gossip would never stop. And Noel—Noel would treat me differently. As I sipped my tea, I glanced at the calendar on the refrigerator.
My son’s birthday was five days away. Forty‑four. How quickly time flies.
It seemed like yesterday I’d been holding his tiny body in the delivery room while Alan, my late husband, stood beside me with that proud, bewildered look on his face. Alan died when Noel was ten. A heart attack—sudden and merciless.
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