Even if his spirit had been suppressed beneath the earth, the least we could do was give his body a proper resting place.
I found the contact for a cemetery manager and held my phone out in front of John.
"Find him a decent burial plot."
"A burial plot?!"
John cut me off, his voice sharp as a blade. He shoved my phone aside.
"That spiritualist already cost a fortune. This house still needs to be rebuilt, and that's another mountain of money. Where the hell am I supposed to find cash for a burial plot?!"
"Your father got himself killed. If you want to spend money on him, spend your own. I'm not paying for it!"
The memory of my father-in-law's kind face, his warm smile, flickered through my mind.
I clenched my teeth, my voice trembling. "Fine. I'll pay."
"You'll pay?!"
John looked at me and let out a mocking laugh.
"You want to pay? Then go earn the money first! You eat my food, you drink my water. What money do you have?!"
A wave of bitter anguish crashed through me.
Years of heavy socializing had wrecked John's health and left him nearly infertile. For three years, I had given up my career entirely, pouring everything into round after round of IVF, desperate to give him an heir.
In the beginning, John had understood my sacrifice. He had appreciated what it cost me.
But three years. That was all it took for him to see me as dead weight.
He was right. I had no money. So fine, no burial plot.
"Alright, John. Forget the burial plot. You handle it."
John looked pleased that I'd backed down so quickly.
He made a phone call and summoned a group of guys. Sitting in his car with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, he pointed at the charred ruins of the old house and barked his orders.
"Go drag that burned-up corpse out of there. Goddamn bad luck, the whole thing."
The young men took the cash and got to work without hesitation. In no time at all, they carried my father-in-law out on a stretcher, a white sheet draped over him.
As they passed me, I saw his hand hanging off the edge of the stretcher.
Burned black as charcoal.
But his fingers were still clenched around something.
I stopped them and stepped forward.
The moment I saw what he was holding, the tears came in a flood I couldn't stop.
Even scorched beyond recognition, it was unmistakable. Clutched in my father-in-law's charred hand was the photograph from my wedding to John.