The letters were uneven, pressed deep by a hand that had worked slowly and with great care. They read: For Dorothy, so you never have to wait alone. I read it twice, and my throat closed. Mom traced each letter with her fingertips and whispered, “He made this the winter he thought he was dying.” I stared at her. Dad had never been sick a day in his life, or so I believed.

Before I could ask, tires crunched on the gravel outside. A door slammed, and Darren’s voice rang across the yard. “Mom! The funeral home called me. What are you doing?” He stormed into the barn, saw the open tarp, and froze, his face going white. “Where did that come from?” Mom turned to him slowly. “Sit down, Darren. You are about to hear what you never bothered to ask.”