Then came the meeting with the lawyer.
I sat in his office three weeks after the funeral, surrounded by dark wood paneling and leather-bound books. He handed me a stack of papers, and I started skimming through them with trembling hands.
My chest tightened as I read. There was a line, small and clinical, buried in the legal jargon.
No record of marriage found.
I blinked, certain it was a mistake. Some clerical error, or something that could be easily fixed. Twenty-seven years together, all those birthdays and anniversaries, all those family vacations and quiet Sunday mornings, all those arguments and making up, and all that laughter and love. How could it not exist legally?
“I’m sorry, Mrs…” the lawyer said, then caught himself. “I mean, Ms. Patricia. There’s no easy way to say this.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “We got married in 1997. I have photos. I have the dress stored in my closet.”
His expression was pained. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but legally, you were never married. We’ve searched every database and county record. Your marriage certificate was never filed with the state. Without a marriage certificate or a will naming you as a beneficiary, you have NO CLAIM TO HIS ESTATE.”
The room tilted. I gripped the arms of the chair to steady myself.
“That’s impossible,” I said. “We had a ceremony. We had witnesses. We’ve been together for 27 years! How can you say we weren’t married?”
