Eleanor had looked James in the eye and told him he wouldn't get a penny when she died. He'd accepted that without hesitation. But weeks after her funeral, her lawyer insisted Eleanor had arranged something for him before her death. Whatever it was, James had to collect it quickly.
I'm 22. I proposed to a 69-year-old woman with a gummy ring because I couldn't afford a real one.
Before she was even buried, her children were telling everyone I'd only wanted her money.
The worst part?
I understood why people believed them.
Eleanor was my patient.
I was a student care assistant at the facility where she'd spent the last fourteen months of her life.
I had eleven dollars in my account when I proposed.
But Eleanor had made one thing clear.
"You're not getting a cent from me, James. Not one."
I'd told her I didn't care.
And I meant it.
