The stranger was a county fraud investigator who had been alerted by the funeral home, which grew suspicious when no body was ever delivered. He had waited for the hearing to see whether Russell would commit perjury in front of the judge. Russell had. He admitted he forged the doctor’s signature, wrote the obituary, and took the donations to cover gambling debts he had hidden for years.

I did not speak until the judge asked. I said I had spent fifty-four years believing love meant covering for him, and that I would no longer. The judge ordered the donations returned, my accounts restored, and the case referred for prosecution. Tricia, weeping, said she had believed my death was real, and I believed her.

Russell accepted a plea requiring repayment, probation, and treatment. I changed my accounts and my will, leaving the house to my grandchildren in trust. Gladys brought a casserole every week that winter, and we laughed about attending my own memorial by gossip.

In spring, Russell wrote me a letter, honest and shaky. I answered after a month. We now have lunch on Sundays, and he pays. The obituary page is gone, but I kept a printed copy in my ledger, a reminder that I am very much alive.