Winda Miller walked into her beautiful home and moved towards her sofa. She was forty-seven and had buried, Norman, her husband of thirteen years. They had two sons, aged twelve and nine and their life had been beautiful and accomplished. Accomplished and beautiful. Those were words Norman used to describe them. Winda was never sure what descriptors to use. Maybe accomplished and polished. Polish was so important to Norman. She glanced around their polished home.
When they married, Winda loved Norman but wasn’t in love with him. Her heart had been with her first love, Bobby Wilkerson, but Norman had enough love for them both, but she had grown to love him and the past seven years had been good ones. Now at age forty-nine, he was gone. Six days earlier, Norman who at forty-one years old became a fitness buff, died of a massive heart attack on the golf course. For the past days, Winda with her mom, Louise’s assistance, had gotten through it all but now she felt numb.
Kicking off her soft leather, black pumps, she fell back on the sofa, fully dressed in a vintage black suit, a small, veiled hat still perched on her head. She closed her eyes and finally allowed tears to trail down her cheeks. She was grateful her mom, Louise had the boys and would bring them home later. Louise had tried convincing Winda to come home with her but she wanted and needed to be alone, to grieve.
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