Afterwife
By: Michael L. Sussman It was sometime between Monday evening and mid-morning Wednesday that my ex-wife died. I was at work that Wednesday in an office shared with two employees. The notification that popped up on my phone displayed my older daughter’s name, which was surprising given the time of day. I tapped to accept the call and held the phone close. “Hey.” “Hey, Michael. This is Jacob.” Also surprising, both because my son-in-law was using Astra’s phone and because he was the one calling. It’s not that we don’t speak to each other. It’s more like, lock two introverts in a room, come back in three hours, find them sitting on opposite sides of the room reading some dusty book or dated magazine. I let him continue. The first death I can recall was of a stranger I’ll call Grandma. Until she had been moved into the vacant apartment next door, I had never seen, heard of, or wondered about this woman. She wasn’t there, and then she was. Shortly before my eighth birthday, Grandma was mov...
