I went to bu:ry my father… and found my husband’s mistress sitting in the front row, wearing my missing Versace like it belonged to her.

Dad sat propped against hospice pillows in a pale blue gown, looking too thin and too sharp at the same time. The room behind him was soft and beige and anonymous in the way all hospice rooms are, like comfort designed by committee. His hands rested on the blanket, veins blue beneath the skin. But his eyes were clear. Clear enough to cut glass.

The timestamp in the corner showed three days before he died.

“My name is James Crawford,” he said. “It’s Thursday, October 14th. I am of sound mind, though somewhat irritated by the pudding in this facility.”
I laughed and cried at once.Blackwood, off camera, said, “State why you requested this recording.”

Dad looked straight into the lens.

“Because my son-in-law is a vain opportunist with mediocre judgment, and I prefer to remove future ambiguities before I become inconveniently unavailable.”

That was my father.