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.

That was hard in a way I had expected and still not prepared for. The last one was simple. No revelations. No plans. No legal notes or hidden compartments or contingency instructions. Just Joshua in the great room, sunlight behind him, saying that if I was watching this one, then I had made it through the year. That grief did not disappear, but it changed citizenship. It no longer ruled every room. That he hoped I had laughed. That he hoped I had ridden. That he hoped I had painted something reckless and beautiful. That he hoped Jenna knew, beyond every secret and mistake, that she had been loved in a way large enough to outlast his body.

I keep that final video unopened most days now. Not because I cannot bear it, but because I no longer need it in the same way. There is a difference.