I MARRIED MY HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEART AT 72—THEN HIS CHILDREN TOOK EVERYTHING

I was hanging laundry on the line when I heard tires on the gravel road.

I turned around—and there was a black limousine.

Right there. Outside my trailer.

A man stepped out in a gray suit, holding a sealed envelope addressed to me.

"Eleanor?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"I'm Garrett's attorney. I'm sorry for your loss."

I nodded, my throat tight.

"He left strict instructions that I deliver this to you personally to make sure you got EXACTLY WHAT YOU DESERVED."

My hands trembled so hard that breaking the seal took three tries.

And when I read the first line of that letter, my knees gave out right there in the dirt.

My dearest Eleanor,

If you're reading this, I'm gone. And I'm sorry I didn't get to say goodbye the way I wanted to.

I know my children haven't treated you well. I know they don't understand what we have. But I made sure they wouldn't be able to take anything from you.

I've left you everything. The house. The money. The investments. My children can contest it, but they won't win. I've had this plan in place for years.

But that's not the only thing I left you.

Behind the painting in my study, there's a safe. Inside that safe, you'll find something I've been saving since 1972.

Something I promised you fifty-three years ago.

I love you, Eleanor. I always have.

Forever yours,

Garrett

I read the letter three times.

Then I looked up at the attorney.

"Is this real?" I asked.

"It's real," he said. "And there's more."

"More?"

"Garrett also left you a letter for each of his children. He wanted you to deliver them personally."