PART 7

But Ernest’s handwriting continued beneath the number.

“I did not tell my children because money changed them.”

I stopped.

That sentence hurt more than the amount.

He had known.

He had watched his children grow up.

He had watched them become distant.

He had seen how quickly they asked about property whenever his health worsened.

He had heard conversations they thought he couldn’t hear.

And he had become afraid.

Not for himself.

For what would happen after he died.

The letter continued.

“I know what you will think. You will wonder why I trusted you when you were not my blood.”

I wiped my tears.

The next sentence destroyed me.

“Because blood is not what makes a family.”

I covered my face.

For twelve years, I had wondered whether Ernest truly considered me family.

Now I had my answer.

But then I reached the final paragraph.

And everything changed.

“Maria, the money is not the most important thing I left you.”

I frowned.

There was more.

“Under the house is something that belongs to you. It is the reason I needed you to have the key.”

I stared at the page.

Under the house.

Again.

But this time there was something else.

A warning.

“Do not tell my children about the account yet.”

My heart began racing.

Why?

What did he know?

I read the next line.

“Before you give anyone anything, find the old stone wall behind the barn.”

I stopped.

The old stone wall.

I knew exactly what he meant.

It was the wall Ernest had forbidden everyone from touching.

For years, he had told the children that the wall was unstable.

“Leave it alone,” he would say.

“There is nothing there.”

But suddenly I remembered something.

When I was newly married, I once asked why the wall had a newer section in the middle.

Ernest had looked at me strangely.

Then he had said:

“Some things are better left buried.”

At the time, I thought he was talking about family memories.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

I folded the letter.

CONTINUE READING PART8…