By the time you read this, I'll be in paradise. Bet it's prettier than this dime-store postcard of a beach sunset you bought on our honeymoon. Remember that day? "Spend money on a honeymoon? May as well piss it down a gopher hole," you said. You gambled everything on the ponies, and lost. I cried so pitifully you bought this postcard at Gilbey's pharmacy, and promised a honeymoon in paradise. Course, we should have bought a box of condoms. Had Little William by our first anniversary, then Jimmy, Carol and finally wee Mary. Mother warned me against any fella nicknamed Wild George. Didn't mind your carryings on at first but I never took to folks calling me "poor Mary.' Sad thing a postcard that never gets sent. It was never meant to be tucked away in a drawer, get forgotten. Like me. My only regret is not learning to drive. Could have had my own job, maybe driven the kids to a beach, and watched a sunset like on this postcard. You said postcard sunsets are fake, but I bet you're wrong, again. Don't blame Reverend Wilson. He never figured his words "we are reborn in our father's house, and will know there eternal paradise," are what inspired me. Also, sorry to ruin your day playing cards at Larry's, but it's the only time you weren't home, and I could use the car. I read it only takes minutes, and I never even leave the garage. Tell the kids and all my grandbabies I love them. Left a meatloaf in the fridge.
PS – Keys are in the ignition.