“You must love the taste of wedding cake.” That was the last thing I said to him before his heart gave in.
She turned up on my doorstep weeks after my dad’s funeral. The reason he died — or so I told myself. If we hadn’t been arguing about her, he’d still be here.
I thought slamming the door in her face was the universal language of telling someone to piss off. She kept ringing the doorbell.
So I showed her the urn.
Dead. See?
She wailed in Russian. Something like it.
I didn’t know the words, but I understood them.
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