I remembered that barbecue.

I had been working that weekend, a client deadline, and had sent my apologies.

I had sent a pasta salad with Daniel and told him to tell everyone I was sorry to miss it.

He had come home that evening and told me it was a nice time.

Nothing special.

On the fourth day, Renee called my cell phone.

I don’t know how she got the number.

I answered because I didn’t recognize it.

“I think we should meet,” she said. “There are things you should know about what Daniel wanted.”

“I know what Daniel wanted,” I said. “I was his wife.”

“He talked about changing his beneficiary designations,” she said. “He talked about it seriously. I think you should know that before you start making decisions about assets.”

I hung up.

Then I called my attorney.

My attorney’s name is Patricia, and she has represented me on contract matters for 4 years.

She is precise and calm, and she does not alarm easily.

When I explained the situation to her, she was quiet for a moment.

“Has anyone filed anything?” she asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. Then we move first.”

She paused.

“Did he actually change any designations?”

I had already checked.

He had not.

The life insurance, the retirement accounts, the investment portfolio, everything still listed me as primary beneficiary.

Whatever he had talked about wanting to do, he had not done it.

“He talked,” I said. “He didn’t act.”

“Then you’re in a strong position,” Patricia said. “Let’s keep it that way.”

The funeral conversation came to a head on a Thursday evening.

My mother-in-law called and told me the deposit for the funeral home was due by Friday.

The number she quoted was substantial, more than I had expected, for a service I had not chosen, at a location I had never visited, arranged by people who had spent the last decade treating my financial support of their family as something they were entitled to rather than something I chose to give.

I sat with the phone against my ear, and I thought about the past 12 years.

I thought about the mortgage I had carried alone when Daniel’s work dried up the first time.

I thought about the month I quietly paid my in-laws’ heating bill in January because they called Daniel and told him they were cold, and Daniel came to me, and I wrote the check without comment because that’s what you do for family.

I thought about every birthday, every holiday, and every quiet sacrifice I had made for people who were at this exact moment asking me to fund a funeral for a man who had spent 2 and 1/2 years lying to my face.

“I need a few days,” I said.

“The deadline is tomorrow,” my mother-in-law said.

“Then you’ll need to cover it, and I’ll reimburse you,” I said.

“You know, we don’t have that kind of money available,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. I need a few days.”

I hung up and sat in the quiet of my living room, the living room of the house I had purchased, in the neighborhood I had chosen, with the furniture I had picked out and paid for.

And I made a decision.

Not out of cruelty, not out of anger exactly, though the anger was there underneath, steady and clean.

I made it out of clarity.

Something had come into focus that had been blurred for a very long time.

I called Patricia again the next morning.

I told her I wanted to review everything.

The joint accounts, the house title, the car registrations, the credit cards.

I wanted to understand exactly what was mine, what was ours, and what was his.

I wanted that picture completely clear before I made any further decisions about the funeral or anything else.

She had the summary to me by end of day.

The house was in my name.