Chapter 4: An Unforgiving Grief

Many people came to the memorial service.

The funeral home overflowed—Ben’s colleagues in crisp suits, neighbors in Sunday best, the PTA president dabbing her eyes. Maddie clung to my side, her hand sweaty in mine.

There were Ben’s colleagues, friends, neighbors, even charity reps holding mourning banners.

I barely recognized some faces. Someone from Ben’s law firm pressed a business card into my hand, promising to help. A trio of charity volunteers stood near the entrance, holding a banner that read “Thank You, Ben Greene.”

Only then did people learn Ben had been donating to kids in rural areas for years—about $30,000 a year, totaling over $150,000.

People blinked in surprise, murmuring as the numbers sank in. I remembered all the times Ben had shrugged off new gadgets, saying we didn’t need much. Turns out he’d been quietly giving away more than I’d ever guessed.

People shook their heads in regret.

"Such a good person. How could something like this happen to him? Good people die young, bad people live forever."

The words drifted through the room, equal parts comfort and confusion. Someone else sighed, echoing the sentiment. It was the kind of thing people said when the world stopped making sense.

"Ben did a lot of pro bono legal work these past years. He just made partner this year and said he was going to work hard for his wife and kid, but now…"

A partner from his firm pressed my shoulder, eyes red. “He was always the first one in, last one out. Said he was building a legacy for you two.”

"They were such a loving couple. How can Maddie’s mom bear it? She’s already fainted several times in just a few days. Luckily the community board is keeping an eye on her."

The board president patted my back, promising help with groceries and rides to school if I needed it. Someone handed Maddie a stuffed bear, whispering that her daddy would always be watching over her.

"Maddie’s mom has no income. Their house still has a mortgage. If Ben were alive, they could pay it off in a year or two. Now, life will be hard."

I heard the concern in their voices, felt the weight of my new reality settle onto my shoulders. It was the kind of worry that burrowed deep, whispering at you in the dark.

"This accident was so unexpected. I heard after he fainted, the water took 20 minutes to slowly cover his mouth and nose. If he’d woken up, or if Maddie’s mom had come home, he could have been saved at any time. Sigh, it’s just fate."

They whispered it like a prayer—one unlucky moment, a twist of fate, the universe tipping the scales when no one was watching. I found myself wishing I could rewind time, just once.

Amid the whispers, I sat pale to the side, staring blankly at Ben’s photo.

His smile in the picture felt like a joke, cruel in its brightness. I traced the frame with my finger, willing him to step out and hug me one more time. It was all I could do not to collapse again.

These days, I was drowning in grief, crying until I felt hollow inside, fainting several times. Anyone who saw me couldn’t help but sigh.

The world seemed distant, muffled. Sleep never came easy, and when it did, I woke up reaching for Ben, only to find empty sheets. Maddie’s nightmares woke us both, and I held her close, telling her stories until she drifted off again.

A community board worker sat beside me, occasionally offering comforting words.

She wore a bright blue vest and kept refilling my cup with sweet tea, her hand gentle on my arm. Her presence was a small anchor in the storm.

Kelsey’s mom came over, looking guilty, and said:

She clutched her purse, eyes puffy from crying. Her voice trembled as she spoke, her usual bravado gone.

"Maddie’s mom, I’m sorry. If I hadn’t kept you at my place that day, maybe, maybe Ben wouldn’t have died."

At the end, she covered her mouth and cried.

Her shoulders shook, mascara streaking down her cheeks. I reached out, squeezing her hand without thinking.

I shook my head in sorrow.

"No, it’s not your fault. It’s my fault. I asked him to run the bath early. I forgot my phone so he had to open the window and ended up falling. I said I’d be home at 11 but dawdled and was ten minutes late. It’s all my fault. I killed him…"

My voice cracked, the guilt cutting deeper than any comfort could reach. My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the tissue. I kept my eyes glued to the floor, afraid if I met anyone’s gaze I’d fall apart.

The community board worker quickly tried to comfort me.

"Maddie’s mom, you can’t think like that. Sometimes accidents just happen. Besides, the police said it was an accident, a freak one."

She squeezed my shoulder, her own voice thick with emotion. I tried to believe her, but the doubt wouldn’t loosen its grip.

That day, when I screamed, Alex was the first to rush in. Realizing what had happened, he immediately blocked Maddie from entering and helped call 911.

He moved fast, scooping Maddie into his arms and turning her away from the bathroom. I heard his panicked voice on the phone, his hands shaking as he recited our address.

After investigating the scene and questioning, the police roughly reconstructed the accident:

10:40, Ben started running water in the bathtub and opened the window to talk to me.

Because the window was on the side of the bathtub and opened inward, he had to lean out sideways. When closing the window, he lost his balance and fell into the tub, losing consciousness.

It was the kind of detail that gnawed at you—how something so simple could spiral so quickly into disaster. I pictured Ben, cheerful, leaning out to wave. The image never left me.

10:40–11:00, the water slowly rose until it covered his head.

The minutes ticked by—slow, relentless. The thought of him unconscious, helpless, while I laughed just a few yards away made my chest ache.

11:00–11:05, after five minutes underwater, Ben suffocated and died. He never woke up, as there were no signs of struggle or splashed water at the scene.

The police walked me through it gently, explaining how quick and silent drowning could be. They assured me there was nothing I could have done—but their words felt hollow.

At 11:10, I came home and discovered the accident.

During this period, from when Ben showed his face at the window to when I returned, no one entered or left the hallway, and there were no suspicious traces at the scene. It was ruled an accident.

The neighbors confirmed it, security cameras showed nothing unusual. The world just kept spinning, indifferent to the cracks opening under my feet.

Someone shook their head and sighed.

"It’s just like they say, ‘When your number’s up, your number’s up’… Huh, who’s that at the door, wearing such thick clothes in this heat?"

Their voices carried, curiosity tinged with suspicion. I didn’t bother looking up, the world narrowed to the photo in my hands.

"Yeah, isn’t she hot?"

A low chuckle, someone fanning themselves with the program. The room was thick with July heat, the AC struggling to keep up.

I hung my head like a walking corpse, oblivious to everything around me.

It was like I’d faded into the background, a ghost haunting my own life. The sounds around me blurred together, lost in the fog of grief.

"She’s walking toward Maddie’s mom."

A hush fell. Someone’s chair scraped. I felt eyes turn my way, the tension in the air crackling.

"Is she here to ask for money from the family? That would be too much. This isn’t a wedding."

A whisper behind me, sharp and judgmental. I braced myself, shoulders tensing involuntarily.

A pair of gray women’s sneakers came into view.

They were battered, laces frayed, the kind of shoes you wore when comfort trumped style. The left sole was patched with duct tape, a testament to stubbornness or maybe just hard times.

The shoes were old, with a small patch of the same color, stained with dust, as if showing how far they had traveled.

I couldn’t help but wonder how many bus stops, how many small-town sidewalks, those sneakers had seen on the way to Cleveland.

"Maddie’s mom, do you recognize me?"

A slightly hoarse voice sounded.

It was low and rough, carrying a fatigue that settled into the bones. The words felt weighted, charged with something I couldn’t yet name.

The voice was close, right by my ear.

I slowly looked up.

In front of me was an old woman’s face.

Her cheeks were drawn, her eyes sharp behind thick glasses. Sunspots speckled her hands. Her mouth was a thin, unwavering line. There was a quiet steel in her posture, like a teacher ready to scold an unruly class.

Her skin was dry and wrinkled, temples graying, but under her drooping eyelids her gaze was sharp.

On this hot summer day, she wore an out-of-season thin wool coat, carrying a faded black purse in one hand and an old travel mug in the other.

The coat looked itchy, out of place. She clutched her purse tightly, as if bracing herself for a fight. The mug was scuffed, a faded Yellowstone sticker peeling off the side.

"I am Carol Greene, your mother-in-law whom you’ve never met."

The formality of her words didn’t match the emotion simmering just beneath. I realized suddenly how little I really knew about this woman who was, on paper, my family.

I looked at her blankly, my exhausted nerves slowly stretching, connecting… My eyes suddenly widened:

"Mom?"

The word slipped out, almost involuntary—a fragile, desperate hope that maybe I’d finally have an ally, not another judge.

Carol slowly nodded.

"It’s good that you recognize me."

She didn’t smile. There was a formality to her tone, a kind of practiced distance I’d only ever seen in Ben during court cases.

People gathered around.

The crowd pressed closer, the air charged with curiosity. I could feel the weight of their stares, hungry for drama, for answers.

"So that’s Ben’s mother. Sigh, losing a child, my condolences."

Someone murmured, hands clasped, eyes shining with that particular kind of pity reserved for strangers.

"It’s good you’re here. Family can support each other. Maddie’s mom and her daughter won’t be so alone."

I heard the words, but they felt empty—platitudes passed around like casserole dishes at a wake.

Someone kindly tried to help Carol with her bag and mug, but she slowly shook her head to refuse, turned to glance at Ben’s portrait, then looked straight at me.

She straightened her spine, pulling her bag closer to her chest. Her gaze lingered on Ben’s photo for a long, aching second, then returned to pin me in place.

"From the day I learned of my son’s death, I set out from Pine Ridge and rushed here without rest, to tell the police one thing."

Her voice didn’t waver. She spoke as if reciting a lesson plan, every word deliberate, unavoidable.

She stared at me, her expression resolute, and spoke each word slowly and clearly.

"You are the one who killed my son."

It felt like the room itself recoiled. All the voices, all the clinking cups and shifting feet, fell away until there was nothing left but the echo of her accusation hanging in the air between us.