The driver stepped out first. Then a tall man in a gray suit emerged, carrying a leather folder and a sealed cream envelope.
“Eleanor?” he said gently as he crossed the uneven yard. “I’m Mr. Whitfield. I was your husband’s attorney.”
The clothespin slipped from my mouth.
“Garrett instructed me to wait until after his passing before contacting you,” he said. “He wanted you to see clearly who his children were. It took me some time to track down this address through your church. He left strict instructions that I deliver this to you personally, to make sure you got exactly what you deserved.”
Mr. Whitfield handed me the envelope. My name was written across it in my late husband’s handwriting.
My hands trembled so badly that opening the seal took three attempts.
I read the first line.
My legs gave way beneath me, right there in the dirt, while the wind continued pulling at the sheets above my head as though the world had not changed at all.
