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 just twenty-two, a nursing student, and Eleanor had been my wife for three months. Everyone believed I had married the wealthy, dying woman for her money, but they knew nothing about the love we had shared.
I grew up in five foster homes, never expecting anyone to stay in my life. Then I met Eleanor, a retired English teacher battling cancer at Willowbrook Senior Living. Others considered her difficult, but we bonded over our love of books, and she made me feel valued for the first time. When I proposed with a cheap gummy candy ring, she laughed before realizing I was serious. She accepted, warning me that I would inherit nothing. We married in a small ceremony, despite her children’s anger and suspicions.
