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.

Your husband built you a farm, an art studio, six horses, a year of video messages, airtight legal protection, and an underground command center full of geological surveys and evidence against his brothers.

It was too much and exactly him at the same time. Joshua had always believed that if something mattered, you prepared for the worst possible version of it with quiet thoroughness. Spare batteries. Duplicate keys. Emergency funds. Backups for backups. He was the kind of man who read insurance policies line by line and packed road flares even in good weather. I had teased him for it for years.

Now I sat in the physical proof of what that instinct looked like when sharpened by love and mortality.

“He didn’t tell me he was sick,” I said, though I wasn’t sure why that was the line that came out.

Ellis looked at the floor. “No, ma’am.”

“He let me go on thinking we had time.”

“Yes.”

I swallowed. “And still he did all this.”

“Yes.”

There are griefs that collapse you, and griefs that recruit you. Somewhere in that underground room, surrounded by the architecture of Joshua’s foresight, mine began turning into the second kind.

“What do I do now?” I asked.