My Husband's Funeral, My New Beginning

My husband, Andrew, told me he was dying from an inoperable brain tumor, then drove his car off a pier, a grand gesture to spare me, his unassuming librarian wife, from a long, painful goodbye.

In my first life, I believed him.

I jumped into the freezing bay, screaming my secret – I' d just won ten million dollars in the Powerball, enough to save him.

But his eyes met mine in the dark water, cold and calculating, utterly devoid of hope.

He didn't swim to the surface; he swam to me, his charming smile replaced by a grimace of pure greed.

He held my head under the water, stealing my life and my fortune as my lungs burned.

Then, I woke up.

I was back on the pier, the screech of tires echoing, Andrew' s car once again sailing into the bay.

It was happening again, but this time, I knew.

My love for him had drowned, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

He wasn't taking anything from me ever again.

This time, I was the one in control, and I started to scream, not from grief, but from a white-hot rage ready to burn down everything they had built.