(CH1) He died, and within days my son looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t expect anything from Dad’s fifty‑five million,” while his wife—new manicure, new authority—patted my arm like I was the help and whispered, “We’re in charge now,” as if love were a ledger and grief a loophole, and I learned how quickly people confuse proximity with ownership when the numbers get big enough to bend their manners, how entitlement can sound like efficiency, and how silence becomes a strategy when you’re outnumbered at your own dining table by people rehearsing a future without you in it.
My name is Aisha Brahman, and I buried my husband in a red silk dress. I didn’t choose red to be scandalous. I chose it […]
