Her Favorite Mug

She was letting the dog out when she noticed her favorite mug in the snow.

That's odd, she thought to herself as she put on her boots.

She pulled her robe tighter as she stepped into the driving wind. Loose snowflakes blew into her eyes. She wondered if the children had put her mug outside to gather snow for snow cream. Why only one mug when there were two of them, though?

She reached the mug and bent over to retrieve it. She'd fired it herself, lovingly sculpting her initials next to her husband's. As her fingers touched the handle, the ground beneath her gave way with a deafening crack.

The shock of the cold water drove every bit of air from her lungs. She thrashed, scrambling for solid ground. Her plush, cozy robe rapidly absorbed the frigid water, weighing her down more with every second. She saw the light from the kitchen window and screamed desperately for her husband, for anyone, until she finally succumbed to the depths.

He watched through the kitchen window as she struggled and finally disappeared beneath the ice. He'd been waiting months for the snow to gather enough to disguise the edge of the lake.

He'd made sure the children were out of the house. No need to traumatize them unnecessarily. The life insurance would cover grief therapy, plus pay off the house. Far more profitable than a divorce.

She sure loved that damn mug, he thought to himself as he sipped his coffee.