Fall

It was an accident, of course. She never wanted him to die; he was her husband. Peter adored Mirabelle, and their marriage was happy enough. It was just a little fall from a ladder. He’d been cleaning the gutters, and she’d been doing the dishes. Mirabelle saw it from the kitchen window—not Peter, but the red and gold leaves that fluttered after him. She finished the dishes before calling an ambulance.

Widow before a grave. Mirabelle’s tears are real enough, but not for the reason her in-laws assume. She cried from pure relief. There would be no children. It’d been far too early in their lives together for that, no growing old together, no more Sunday brunches with his parents. She prayed not for Peter’s soul, but instead thanked God for her freedom.

Months later a ship bore her across the ocean. She was luminous in the sunset, leaning against the railing. In her attire there wasn’t any black. Five days of sea salt air and champagne would do her good. Yet, Peter was always at the back of her mind. It agitated her to no end. Why was she burdened by his memory? She’d been a good wife. It’s not as if she killed him. His back broke in the fall. Mirabelle could have gotten help sooner, but the dishes wouldn’t wash themselves. It wouldn’t have made any difference, and Peter wouldn’t have wanted to spend his life as an invalid.

Really, she was quite compassionate; a good wife deserving of an extended vacation. But she enjoyed herself too much. With one less glass of wine she mightn’t have slipped off that balcony. She couldn’t live without him. That’s what everyone thought. So tragically romantic.

What a devoted wife.