…move your husband to the county’s shared section and build a private family mausoleum on your plot.”
The buyer was a local businessman who had wanted a plot in that section of the cemetery for years. My son, Kevin, had sold him our burial rights for $60,000.
There was just one problem. The burial rights weren’t Kevin’s to sell. They were in my name.
“He told us you’d signed everything over to him,” the director, Mrs. Grant, said. “But the paperwork he gave us was a photocopy. When we asked for the original, he said he’d ‘bring it next week.'”
Mrs. Grant voided the contract on the spot. The businessman, horrified to learn he’d been lied to, cancelled his payment and gave a statement to the police.
Then I called the stone removal company back. The owner, Mr. Hale, had a surprise for me. “Ma’am, we hadn’t destroyed it yet. We had a feeling something wasn’t right. It’s sitting in our yard.”
My husband’s headstone was intact. Not a scratch on it.
Kevin and his wife, Tara, were charged with fraud. Kevin admitted he’d planned to use the money to pay off debts from a failed restaurant. Tara had convinced him “Dad wouldn’t care where he’s buried.”
“Your father picked that spot himself,” I told Kevin. “Under the maple tree. So I’d have shade when I visit.”
The headstone was reinstalled two weeks later. Mr. Hale wouldn’t take a dollar for the work. I’ve added one thing: a small bronze plaque at the base that reads, “Reserved for his wife. Not for sale.”
