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.

“Hello, Cat,” he said.

My hand flew to my mouth.

“If you’re watching this, then I’m gone, and you made it to the farm despite all those years I spent making you promise not to.” He gave the faintest laugh. “To be fair, I was counting on that.”

Outside, the knocking resumed. Harder now. A fist, not a hand.

Joshua continued as if he could hear none of it.

“I’ve made a video for every day of your first year without me. One year of me keeping you company while you grieve. One year of explanations I should have given you while I was still there to answer your face in real time.”

Tears blurred my sight. Even now, he knew exactly how I grieved: with anger at evasion, with a demand for coherence, with a private hatred for half-finished things.

He grew quieter then. More serious.

“I need to start with the truth I should have told you three years ago. I was diagnosed with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.”

The words did not register at first. Or maybe they registered too well and my mind rejected them on arrival.

“It’s inherited,” he said. “My father had it. The doctors gave me somewhere between two and five years if things progressed the way they expected. I chose not to tell you. Or Jenna.”