I Married an Older Woman for Money and a Place to Stay – After Her Funeral, Her Lawyer Handed Me a Box and Said, ‘This Is What You Really Wanted’
“The old widow with the blue house?”
“Jess, I’m getting married.”
“Keep your voice down.”
He leaned back, grinning. “Damon, that’s not a marriage. That’s just shelter with benefits.”
“It’s a roof, Jesse,” I muttered.
“It could all belong to you if you wait long enough.”
I should have left. Instead, I stared at my beer and said, “I’m tired, Jesse. I’m tired of being cold. I’m tired of collection calls. I’m tired of smelling like gas station soap.”
“So you just found a better plan.”
I didn’t answer.
“Damon, that’s not a marriage.”
***
Two weeks before the courthouse wedding, Evie slid a folder across her kitchen table.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A prenuptial agreement, Damon.”
“You’re serious?”
“Lonely doesn’t mean careless.”
She folded her hands on the table. “The house stays mine. My savings stay mine. And if something happens to me, my will speaks for me.”
“A prenuptial agreement.”
“You think I’m after your money, Evie?”
She looked at me over her reading glasses. “I think hunger makes good people do ugly things, honey.”
My face burned. “I’m not hungry anymore. Not like I used to be.”
