Dad’s broken mower sat in my shop for two days before I finally looked under the seat. Taped to the frame was a small envelope with my name on it in Dad’s handwriting. Inside was a key and a note: “Son, the store was never going to be hers. Open the safe at the bank on Elm. Do not tell Camille.” My hands shook. I had never seen him write anything kind about me.

I drove to the bank that afternoon. The manager brought out a metal box with Dad’s name and mine on the lid. Inside lay a deed, a will, and a letter. The deed transferred Dalton’s Hardware to me, signed three years ago. As I read the first line of the letter, my phone rang. It was Mom, crying. “Come home,” she whispered. “Your father is in the hospital.”