Nathaniel set down his pen and studied me carefully. He asked whether I was certain, whether I wanted to sleep on a decision made so soon after Edmund’s funeral. I told him grief had nothing to do with it. I had already grieved while sitting among empty chairs, watching my children drink champagne instead of attending their father’s funeral. This wasn’t sorrow speaking. It was clarity, arriving after fifty-four years of pretending their absence didn’t hurt. Nathaniel nodded and began drafting the new documents. Then he stopped and asked a question that made my breath catch. Did I know Edmund had visited him privately six months before his death and left a sealed letter with one very specific instruction?

I stared at him. Nathaniel explained that Edmund had ordered the letter to be opened only if our children failed to attend his funeral. I had never heard a word about it. He retrieved the envelope from a locked drawer, and the moment I saw my husband’s handwriting, my hands began trembling. Edmund had known something I had spent decades refusing to admit. He had seen that our children’s affection seemed to exist only when we could provide something for them. And now, as Nathaniel reached for the seal, I realized the letter might contain the truth Edmund had never been able to say while he was alive.