My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

The brothers.

Of course.

I crossed the room, locked the front door, and stood very still while they approached. My pulse had gone fast and cold. I was alone, in a foreign country, inside a house that now legally belonged to me but emotionally still felt like stepping into someone else’s dream.

The oldest man raised a hand and knocked. Not hard at first. More like a man announcing himself where he expected eventual compliance.

“Mrs. Mitchell,” he called. “We know you’re in there.”

His voice carried through the wood with that softened Canadian cadence Joshua’s own voice sometimes slipped into when he was exhausted or caught off guard. Hearing it from another man felt like hearing a private melody turned into something public and unpleasant.

I did not answer.

He knocked again, more sharply this time. “Catherine. My name is Robert Mitchell. I’m Joshua’s older brother. These are our brothers, Allan and David. We need to talk.”

Need. Not hope. Not would appreciate. Already the language of entitlement.

My eyes shifted to the desk.