Mr. Whitaker read it slowly. “You said, ‘Tell the old man I do not have time to watch him die. Get the papers signed, and sell that dirt the day he goes.’” The room went silent. Rafael’s face drained of color, and his lawyer, who had been staring at the floor, closed his briefcase and walked out without a word. In the corner, Rosa wept quietly, her hands trembling in her lap.

Rafael opened his mouth, but nothing came out. I felt my throat close. Mr. Whitaker lifted a second page. “Your father added one more instruction,” he said gently. “He asked that Mrs. Delgado receive a sealed envelope, to be opened only after that sentence was read.” He placed it in her hands, and Rosa looked at me, frightened, because the envelope bore a name none of us expected: Tomás Delgado, her late husband.