The day of my father’s funeral, my “loyal” wife took my credit cards and flew her entire family to a 5-star resort in Bali
The air inside the sprawling, six-bedroom colonial was suffocating, thick with the cloying, aggressively sweet scent of Casablanca lilies. They were arranged in massive crystal vases on the mahogany dining table, the kitchen island, and the entryway console. But they weren’t for my father, Henry, whose lungs were failing in a sterile hospice room ten miles away. They were for the “Spring Soiree” my wife, Miranda, insisted on hosting three days after we received his terminal diagnosis.
For seven years, I had been the load-bearing wall of our marriage, a successful architect in Massachusetts who poured every ounce of his energy into designing a life that looked perfect from the street.
