“And never sign what you haven’t read.”

At thirty-nine, I had become the woman he’d hoped to teach.

I just hadn’t expected to need both lessons against his own son.

Inside the envelope were two pages and a folded photograph.

The photograph showed Walter and me on the farmhouse porch, my hair windblown, his hand on my shoulder.

On the back he had written, Home belongs to the people who care for it.

The first page was a letter.