I Became a Private Driver for a Wealthy Widow Because I Needed Mo.ney – After She Said I Had Taken Her Dia.mond Broo.ch, I Found a Hidden Note in the Car and Was Left Stunned

She never cried at his grave.

Instead, she spoke softly to him, as though he were sitting beside her.

Over time, she began asking questions.

“How old are your children, Stan?”

“Seven, five, and two.”

“Do they know how hard you work?”

I laughed.

“They mostly know I’m never home.”

A shadow crossed her face.

“It’ll be worth it one day,” she said quietly.

Sometimes after our errands, she invited me inside for coffee.

I always perched nervously on the edge of expensive chairs.

“You can sit back,” she teased one afternoon. “The furniture won’t attack you.”

“Old habits.”

She chuckled.

Soon she told me stories about Arthur, about the loneliness of a giant house, and about her four adult children.

The way she talked about them always felt different.

One afternoon, stirring tea absentmindedly, she sighed.

“Bradley wants another meeting with the estate lawyer.”