Sitting by the edge of the water, she let her eyes drift past the soft ripple. Life had played itself out as expected. A wife, a mother, a grandmother, all roles dutifully played. Now that he was gone, she could sit and enjoy a quiet cup of coffee, even smoke a cigar, if she wanted. The clouds, as her eyes did, would drift past the ripples, the storms, and the thunder. He would never lay a hand on her again, ever again. She got the money; she got the peace, two in one. That was not bad for an old lady. But the book would not speak of that, of course.