We’ll get to Willie’s move next week. 

We have to discuss Willie’s boyfriend. 

Yep.  

Willie has a boyfriend. 

I was visiting Willie one day. She complained about a fellow widow.  

This widow, she said, was not moving on. This widow needed a life. 

“Look at me,” Willie said. “I miss Indy. But I play Pinochle! I have a kinda-sorta boyfriend! Do you know who it is?” 

I asked if it was Mike Brady. 

“Yes!” Willie said. “How did you know?” 

You guys might remember Mike Brady. 

No. Not that Mike Brady.  

Willie’s Mike Brady. 

Willie and Mike Brady have been – ahem – friends for years. I call him my future stepdad. 

Also, there are, like, two widowers in the Temple of Doom. I’m not exactly Miss Cleo over here. 

Even though I knew this was coming. Mike Brady suggested he move into Willie’s second bedroom about four minutes into Willie’s widowhood. 

Willie turned him down. Cheeky, considering the number of widows at the Temple of Doom far exceeds the number of widowers.  

Competition is fierce. Willie once told me when a widower moves into the Temple of Doom, or – even worse – when an extant resident loses his wife, the widows call dibs.  

I didn’t tell my siblings about Mike Brady and his kinda-sorta romance with Willie. 

They fail to see the humor in Willie moving on from Indy.  

Also, I was hoping Willie might tell them herself. 

When I wasn’t around. 

And oh boy. Did she ever. 

She was attending our family reunion this summer when she made the big announcement. 

I was conspicuously absent from the reunion. 

Huh. Maybe I am Miss Cleo.  

Now, Willie didn’t simply say she has a boyfriend.  

Please.  

How long have we been doing this? 

No. Willie, um, shared exactly how many bases she and Mike Brady have rounded. 

Now, Willie and Mike Brady are no Babe Ruth, pointing to center field. Or Tom Berenger in Major League, mimicking the gesture only to bunt in a bait and switch. 

Still, when my sister texted our sibling group chat about Willie’s ill-timed announcement, she asked if we should talk to Willie about disease prevention. 

Not it. 

I called it first. 

Not it. 

I am not having that discussion.  

When I told the Temple of Doom’s director about Willie and Mike Brady – he’s become a good friend over the years of Willie’s residence – he was shocked. 

“I had no idea!” he laughed. 

“I did,” his administrative assistant said. 

Her desk is behind the Temple of Doom reception desk. The Temple of Doom residents – Willie among them – staff the reception desk. 

The reception desk is, apparently, the office water cooler of gossip. 

When it became apparent Willie had to move, Mike Brady was crushed.  

The Temple of Doom director – he told me Mike Brady is a good guy. I mean, a good guy. He cared for his wife at the end of her life. Never flinching. Never skimping. Never resentful. 

And Mike Brady adores Willie. 

Indy adored Willie. 

Now, we all know I only believe in ghosts, well, all the time. So I’ll say here I think Indy sent Mike Brady to Willie.  

At this most trying time of Willie’s life – leaving the apartment she loves, leaving the last residence she ever shared with Indy, losing a significant chunk of her independence – Willie needs someone. 

Someone not her kids, who are also grieving. 

Mike Brady has been that someone for Willie. They love each other. 

I have arrived at Willie’s new digs to find them sharing meals. To find Mike Brady tenderly hanging Willie’s Phillies wreath on her new apartment door. To find Mike Brady delivering Willie’s mail. 

Wait. What? 

Willie’s mail is delivered to a locked mailbox. How did Mike Brady get it? 

Unless…oh no. 

Willie’s mail key was missing for a few days. Did – did she give it to Mike Brady?  

I stopped off at Mike Brady’s apartment. I asked about the key. 

“Oh, yeah!” Mike Brady said. “It’s right here!” 

He walked me to his kitchen counter to retrieve the key. 

That was when I saw the mail addressed to Indy. 

It was a 2024 1099-DIV from Indy’s itinerant stocks.  

Now, you guys know how I spent eighteen months filing five years’ worth of tax returns Willie and Indy never bothered to file themselves.  

How I spent hours sorting through decades of worthless papers, searching for errant W2s. 

How I spent hours on the phone with Social Security, banks, the VA, Willie’s financial advisor – all to recreate the documents necessary for tax filings. 

How I spent hours creating accounts with online identity services so I could maybe – just maybe – access the needed documents online. 

How Willie lost thousands of dollars in tax returns because the filings were so overdue. 

And now, here I am. Taxes all caught up. An eye towards the upcoming tax season. 

And there are tax documents in Mike Brady’s kitchen. 

“This is an Office-level sitcom, babe,” my husband said when I relayed the story to him. “Get writing.” 

Maybe later. 

Right now, I’m in the middle of moving Willie for the second time in a week. 

Yeah. 

We have so much to talk about, you and I. 

See you next week