I moved into the tenant house with a different feeling in my heart. The rooms were familiar, but everything seemed changed. The pecan trees stood across the land, their branches stretching over the same soil my great-grandfather had once worked. A buyer eventually offered me $1.2 million for the property. It was more money than I had ever imagined seeing, but I turned the offer down. The land meant more than its market value. Selling it would have ended the story Henrietta had worked so hard to correct. I wanted to preserve it and keep my family’s connection to it alive.

Alfreda visited and apologized for not being able to help me when I was struggling. I told her there was nothing to forgive. Other relatives began visiting, too, and the house slowly felt less lonely. I harvested pecans from the orchard and sold 1,100 pounds at the farmers market for three dollars a pound. Rosella started coming over on Tuesdays to play gin rummy, bringing laughter back into my days. Then Carlton arrived with something I had never expected: the napkin on which Henrietta had carefully written my full name. He had framed it, preserving her handwriting as a final gift.