I died in the year my wife hated me most.
Unable to bear her constant coldness toward me, I chose to kill myself.
At the funeral home, my wife held my urn and, for once, showed a faint smile:
"Someone as filthy as you doesn't deserve to leave behind a whole body in this world."
Then, with a crash, my ashes spilled across the floor.
She had always believed I was the one who killed the man she loved most.
So for all those years, she'd carefully plotted and acted, all for this very moment.
After she'd done it all, she strode away, leaving my ashes behind.
But not long afterward, she came back on her knees, begging the funeral home to return my ashes to her.
