At my son’s funeral, his wife leaned over his grave and whispered four words directly into my ear. ‘You’re next, Alfred.’ The first time in ten years she had used my name — and it wasn’t warmth. It was a warning.
At my son’s funeral, his wife leaned close beside the grave and whispered, *”You’re next.”* She should have waited before threatening a seventy-two-year-old father — because by that evening, I stood in her living room, reached into my coat pocket, and pulled out the one envelope Robert had hidden before he died. Her fingers tightened…