A tall man in a gray suit stood at the arrivals gate holding a small sign that read “Señora Prescott.” When I stepped forward, he removed his hat and said softly, “Señora, I am Dr. Ramírez. Your husband’s brother has waited forty years to meet you.” My knees weakened. He opened a leather folder and handed me a photograph. It showed an older man with Walter’s exact eyes, standing in front of a wooden house, holding a letter.

“Mateo is very ill,” Dr. Ramírez said gently. “He asked me to bring you before it is too late. Walter promised him you would come.” My hands shook around the photograph. Then my phone buzzed, and Margaret’s name lit the screen with a single message: “Mom, where are you? Dad’s attorney says there is a second will.”