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.

For a moment the whole café seemed to recede, the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of ranchers in the corner booth, the clink of cutlery from the kitchen. My daughter looked suddenly younger than twenty-seven, not in her features but in her helplessness before a truth she had not consented to receive in public over coffee and chipped white mugs.

“That’s not possible,” she said.

“It is.”

I told her, carefully, about the diagnosis. About the laptop. About the daily videos. About the fact that the secrecy had not been born of confusion, but intention.

Tears rose in her eyes before she could stop them. “He would have told me.”

“He should have,” I said softly. “But he didn’t.”

I turned the tablet toward her and started the file I had chosen, the one Joshua had labeled FOR JENNA IF NEEDED.

His face appeared on the screen. Healthy. Strong. Heartbreaking.

“Hello, my brilliant girl,” he said.

Jenna’s hand flew to her mouth.

“If you’re seeing this, then I’m gone, and either your mother has decided the timing is right or you’ve managed to bulldoze your way into information someone was trying to pace for you.”