After burying my wife, I finally unlocked the barn she had never allowed me to enter. For 37 years, it had been sealed off, a place she insisted held nothing but old tools and useless clutter. I expected dust, silence, and memories long forgotten.

He walked in late. His suit perfectly pressed, his expression cold and distant. He did not look at the casket. He looked at me. He sat down in the back row. He did not come up to say hello. He did not put his hand on my shoulder. He just sat there checking his phone like he had somewhere better to be.

I felt something heavy settle in my chest. Disappointment, anger, maybe both.

After the service ended, people came up to shake my hand. They told me how sorry they were. They told me Brenda was a wonderful woman. I thanked them. I said all the right things, but I did not feel anything. I was numb.

Dennis finally approached me as everyone was leaving. He did not hug me. He did not ask how I was holding up.

Instead, he said, “We need to talk about the will.”

I stared at him.

“The will?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “The farm. The estate. We need to figure out what happens now.”

I could not believe what I was hearing. His mother had just been buried, and all he cared about was money. I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him how disgusted I was. But I was too tired, too broken.

“Not today, Dennis,” I said quietly.

He frowned.

“Dad, we cannot avoid this forever.”

“Not today,” I said.