Regretting the Wife He Threw Away

Stewart's gravesite had been chosen by a renowned spiritualist, whose services Cedric Clarke had secured at great expense.

Stewart, in life, had made it clear he didn't want a funeral. His only wish was for his ashes to be scattered along the banks of Pearbrook.

That, however, proved impossible. In the end, Cedric honored Stewart's wishes as best he could.

Briony quietly took on the responsibility for all the expenses-from the burial plot to the simple ceremony itself.

Cedric had called her, insisting he wanted to contribute, a gesture of brotherhood and remembrance. After some thought, Briony allowed him to cover a small portion.

As Stella once said, people are complicated. Stewart wasn't just a father to his two children; he was also a friend, a mentor, a colleague. The lives he touched were proof he'd truly been here.

Briony couldn't refuse others the chance to express their respect for Stewart. On the day of the funeral, a fine mist drizzled from a gray sky.

The ceremony was intimate and unadorned.

Those present were few: Cedric Clarke, Briony, James, Carl, Lorna, Carol, and the directors of two orphanages.

Carl had been the one to reach out to them.

Stewart had anonymously supported these orphanages for years. When he learned of his illness, he entrusted both his law firm and the orphanages to Carl's

care.

The directors arrived with children in tow, each child clutching a handmade white flower.

At the appointed hour-chosen by the spiritualist-Briony approached the grave, wearing a simple black dress, two white flowers pinned to her sleeve.

She carried Stewart's favorite suit, the one he'd worn to countless important moments in his life, holding it close on behalf of his children.

Under the spiritualist's gentle guidance, she laid the suit into the grave.

When the headstone was finally set, it was simple and solitary: Stewart Wentworth.noveldrama

The children's white paper flowers soon blanketed the grave in a quiet tribute.

Cedric spoke softly, "Stewart may have been cut from the family tree by Fred, but he was always Grandpa Wentworth's favorite grandson. The Wentworth name lives on through Grandpa, not Fred."

Carl added, "Word got out somehow. The family elders have been calling me nonstop, hinting they want Mr. Wentworth buried in the family mausoleum."

"Over my dead body." Cedric's voice was sharp. "When Fred turned on Stewart, they all lined up to stab him in the back. Now, with the Wentworth Group in ruins, the family's only thinking about itself. They see Stewart's legacy his charity, his good works-and want to use it to clean up their own mess."

"Exactly," Lorna said, sniffling. "There's nothing left in that family worth longing for. Let Stewart rest here, in peace. He never really got to live for himself. Let him have this freedom now."

Briony listened in silence.

Her gaze lingered on the black-and-white photograph on the gravestone a copy of his ID photo brows furrowed, lips unsmiling. She realized, with a pang, that she'd never seen Stewart truly, spontaneously smile.

He'd carried the weight of the world his whole life. Maybe now, at last, he could lay it down.

The burial ended. Carl saw the directors and the children off.

The rain still fell as the mourners, dressed in black and clutching umbrellas, made their way down the hill.

At the foot of the slope, they went their separate ways.

Just before leaving, Lorna called out to Briony.

"I misspoke the other day," she said, her eyes earnest. "I want to apologize- properly, this time."