The Wake, the Will, and a Well-Deserved Martini

1. The Death Notice

They killed me on a Tuesday.

Well, technically, I died on a Tuesday. That’s what the paper says. “Edna Mae Bontrager, 82, beloved matriarch, passed peacefully in her sleep.” Peacefully, my ass. I took two Benadryl and a shot of peppermint schnapps and laid real still until my dumbass niece, Trina, started screaming like she found Jesus in the laundry hamper.

I planned the whole thing. Wrote the obituary myself. Even picked the photo—me in my church hat, looking like I just told God his sermon was too long. You fake your death once, you do it right. And I was beloved, goddammit. Until they smelled money.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever watched your family mourn you from the attic, but it’s a special kind of therapy. They didn’t cry. They sniffled strategically. Like they were auditioning for a role in “Rich Widow: The Series.” My oldest, Martin, was already googling how to liquidate an estate without alerting the IRS. And my granddaughter? Shit. She brought a tape measure to my closet. Said she was “just helping.”

Helping my ass. You know who helps? Nurses. Firemen. Not the chick stealing my orthopedic heels like they’re fuckin’ Louboutins.

The only one who looked sad for real was my dog, Lucky. And he don’t even have tear ducts.

But that’s fine. Let ’em think I’m dead. Let ’em circle like hyenas around a diabetic zebra. Because this ain’t a funeral—it’s a trap. I got receipts. I got rage. And I got one hell of a clause in that will.

Now pass the damn popcorn. The wake’s about to start.