My husband, Rick Holden, presented a fresh divorce agreement, his signature already scrawled across the bottom.It was the same boring game.At the funeral, my mother's body lay in the cold casket. Yet Rick decided to start his sick game again.I stared at the face I had once adored. For three years, whenever he produced those documents, I had cried, begged, and raged exactly as he scripted, only to be pulled back into his arms the next day while he laughed and ripped the agreement to shreds.He had said it was to spice up the marriage, and I had gone along with him.But now, my mother, Helen Marsh, was gone. In her final moments, she had clung to my hand and looked at the door, waiting for the man she'd treated like a son to come say goodbye.He never came.I bowed to the casket, took the pen from Rick's hand, and signed it without fussing."There," I said.He froze, expecting the usual breakdown, the tears, and accusations. Instead, I remained perfectly calm."What are you
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