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.

“Do you remember your art history professor at Madison?” I asked.

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“The one who talked about perspective. About how the object itself doesn’t change, just the angle from which you stand.”

Her expression tightened. “Mom, don’t do the teacher thing.”

“I’m asking you to consider that you’ve only heard one angle.”

“Dad is dead,” she said bluntly, pain flashing through the control in her face. “And apparently he was hiding half his life from us. So forgive me if I don’t instinctively trust the silent-mystery version of events anymore.”

There it was. The real wound under all of it. Not the money. Not the farm. The secrecy.

I reached into my bag and took out the tablet I had prepared.

“Then hear from him.”

Her gaze dropped to it, then snapped back to me. “What is that?”

“Your father left video messages.”

The color drained from her face. “What?”

“He knew he was dying, Jenna.”

The words hung between us.