She spent all of Sunday in the cul-de-sac, spreading her past onto little tables and watching strangers paw
through the toys her children curled up with in bed, the knicknacks her husband brought back from his trips to Japan and Manilla and Greece. It was time to let go of the past, because her future required money to live by, because her past was contained in her memories, not in her family’s salt shaker collections or Child’s First ABC books, and because the insurance money was starting to run low.
After a weekend of selling off her history, she set her husband’s old work clothes just a little too close to a kerosene lamp and a roaring space heater, items she would be too old and feeble-minded to realize shouldn’t be in the same place. Then, she went to visit her sister in Norfolk.
The payout on her house wouldn’t be massive, but it would allow her and her sister to live out the rest of their lives in relative comfort. This time, there would be no greedy, ungrateful children wasting money on status symbols under the threat of extortion. This time, there were no loose ends in need of darning.
At least that’s what she thought, until the police found a Google search on her melted hard drive about senility as a legal defense.