THE PRICE OF SAYING GOODBYE!

The instruction said:

“Release wedding band to son. Wife has approved.”

Beneath it was another imitation of my signature.

I could forgive a shaky signature. Mine had been shaky all week.

But whoever wrote it had spelled my middle name wrong.

“What happened to his ring?” I asked.

The funeral director folded his hands.

“Your son collected it Thursday morning.”

Daniel had told me the ring was buried with his father.

I’d thanked him.

That was the part that made me put the paper down.

I had actually thanked him.

The director explained the $8,400 receipt. Daniel had ordered a separate reception package, extra cars and upgraded flowers. He’d said I authorized the charges.

Then he’d paid with a card in my husband’s name.

The invoice he handed me in the parking lot was his own creation.

Including the $200 for crying.

“Could you make me copies?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“All of it. Please.”

Outside, I sat in my car until the automatic locks clicked.

Then I called Daniel.

“Did you take your father’s ring?”

There was a pause.

“Mom, don’t start.”

“Where is it?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“I want it back.”

“And I want to stop having this conversation while I’m working.”

He hung up.

I drove home and took off the black shoes that had rubbed both heels raw. There was a casserole on the porch. I put it in the refrigerator beside three others.

Then I went into my husband’s workshop.

Arthur kept every receipt he’d ever been given. He had the instruction manual for a toaster we’d thrown away in 1998.

In the bottom desk drawer was a folder labeled FAMILY LOANS.

I knew about the $12,000 we’d lent Daniel for a roof.

I knew about the $6,500 for our granddaughter’s braces.

I did not know about the other transfers.

$28,000.

$35,000.

$19,500.

Each one had a date and a note in Arthur’s handwriting.

The last page contained a total.

$186,400.

Underneath it, my husband had written:

“Daniel says Ellen must not know. Call bank Monday.”

Arthur died on Sunday.

I read that sentence several times.

Then I called the bank using the number on our statement.

I asked for an appointment to review our joint accounts. I said I would be coming alone.

Daniel was on my porch when I got home the next afternoon.

Beth was beside him.

Neither asked how I was.

“The bank called,” he said.

“They called you?”

“They said my access was removed.”

“Yes.”

Beth stepped forward.

“We’ve been handling everything for you.”

“Then you can tell me where Arthur’s ring is.”

Daniel reached into his coat.

For one foolish second, I thought he was going to give it back.

Instead, he took out a folded piece of paper.

A pawn ticket.

Loan amount: $350.

Forty-three years on my husband’s hand.

Three hundred and fifty dollars.

“You pawned it?”

“I was going to get it back.”

Beth sighed.

“Arthur isn’t exactly going to need it, Ellen.”

I opened my front door and went inside.

They followed me into the kitchen.

Daniel saw the folder on the table.

He stopped talking.

I put the funeral invoice beside it.

“You charged your father’s card. Then you tried to get the same money from me.”

“That was to cover other expenses.”

“Which ones?”

“You have no idea what we’ve been dealing with.”

“Then explain the $186,400.”

Beth turned toward him.

“What $186,400?”

For the first time since the funeral, she sounded as surprised as I was.

Daniel reached for the folder.

I put my hand on it.

“Leave.”

He started telling me that grief was affecting my judgment.

I picked up the telephone.

They left before I finished dialing.

That evening, I sat at Arthur’s desk with the pawn ticket.

I was looking for his jeweler’s receipt when my phone rang.

It was my granddaughter, Katie.

“Grandma, did Dad give you the bill?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“The one for the funeral?”

“Yes.”

She began to cry.

I told her she wasn’t in trouble.

“I helped him with his printer,” she said. “He told me to delete the files afterward. But one had your name, so I opened it.”

“What kind of file?”

“I took a picture. I’m sending it.”

My phone chimed.

The document was an estimate from the same funeral home.

Same chapel.

Same reception room.

Same $8,400 package.

But this one wasn’t for Arthur.

It was for me.

At the top, beneath my full name, someone had selected:

CLIENT UNABLE TO PARTICIPATE. ARRANGEMENTS TO BE HANDLED BY SON.

Then I checked the date.

Daniel had requested it three weeks before his father died.

“Grandma?” Katie whispered.

I couldn’t answer.

There was another page.

And at the bottom was a signature I knew far better than my own.