“11-C. Beside my mother. It has been reserved in his name since 1996, and it is the only grave I will ever sign for.” Nobody moved. Glenda stood frozen in the doorway, her hand gripping the frame. For the first time in twenty-seven years, she had no argument ready. The pastor quietly folded the funeral program and told the director to change the route. At 1:15, we buried my father beneath the maple my mother had loved. Glenda stood at the very back, alone.

After everyone left, Mrs. Haverly approached me with an envelope Dad had given her in April. Inside was one handwritten page. He admitted the Sunday calls from the garage were the most cowardly thing he had ever done, but also the only thing he never missed. He had put the cemetery plot in my name when I was seven because he already knew his courage would fail him. Then I reached the final line, and finally understood why he had done it.