Inside was a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills — more money than I’d seen in one place in a decade.

Beneath the cash was a letter in Ernest’s elegant script, dated and notarized.

My fiercely loving Theresa, he had written, the ink slightly smudged. I have been a fool, and I made you play the fool with me. In our desperation to give Austin the world, we raised a man who believes the world owes him a living.

I see the way they look at you — not as a mother, but as a vault.

If you are reading this, I am gone, and they are likely suffocating you.

Do not let them bury you next to me while your heart is still beating.