At Eleanor Whitlock’s funeral, her daughter leaned toward me and whispered, “I hope she was worth it. I hope you got everything you came for.” I was twenty-two, a nursing student, and Eleanor had been my wife for three months. I knew what everyone suspected: that I had married a dying, wealthy woman for her money. But the truth was nothing like they imagined.
I had grown up in five foster homes and learned early not to expect anyone to stay. Then I met Eleanor, a retired English teacher dying of cancer, who lived at Willowbrook Senior Living. Everyone called her difficult, but when she discovered I loved reading, we began spending evenings discussing books. For the first time, someone listened to me as though my thoughts mattered. Slowly, our friendship became love.
When I proposed with a cheap gummy candy ring, Eleanor laughed, then realized I was serious. She accepted, but warned me that I would inherit nothing. I promised I wanted no money. We married in a small ceremony at Willowbrook, surrounded by nurses and a few residents. Her children were furious, convinced I had manipulated their dying mother.
