Never Go to the Farm
Never go to the farm, Catherine. Promise me.
Those words, spoken with uncharacteristic intensity, were among the few demands my husband Joshua ever made during our twenty-four years of marriage. I had always respected his wishes, even when curiosity gnawed at me during those rare moments when he’d mentioned his Canadian childhood on a property he’d left behind.
But now Joshua was gone—taken by a heart attack that no one, not even me, had seen coming. After twenty-four years of marriage, I had become a widow at fifty-two, with a bitter daughter and a hollow space in my chest where certainty used to live.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” the voice of Joshua’s attorney, Mr. Winters, pulled me from my thoughts.
We sat in his wood-paneled office two weeks after the funeral. He slid a small box across his desk. Inside lay an antique brass key attached to a maple-leaf keychain, and a sealed envelope with my name written in Joshua’s precise handwriting.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Your husband purchased a property in Alberta, Canada, three years ago. According to his instructions, you were only to be informed after his passing. The deed has been transferred to your name. All taxes are paid for the next five years.”
“A property in Canada?” I struggled to process the information.
“It’s called Maple Creek Farm. Apparently, it was his childhood home, though the deed shows it changed hands several times before he repurchased it.”
The farm. The place he’d forbidden me to visit.
“Mrs. Mitchell, there’s something else. The property has become quite valuable recently. Significant oil deposits were discovered in the region about eighteen months ago. Your husband declined multiple offers from energy companies.”
My head spun with questions. Joshua had never mentioned oil, money, or any property purchase. How had he afforded to buy a farm? And why keep it secret from me?
I opened the envelope with trembling fingers.
My dearest Catherine, if you’re reading this, then I’ve left you too soon. The farm is yours now. I’ve spent the last three years transforming it from the broken place of my childhood into something beautiful—something worthy of you. I know I made you promise never to go there. I’m releasing you from that promise. In fact, I’m asking you to go just once before you decide what to do with it. On the main house’s desk is a laptop. The password is the date we met, followed by your maiden name. I love you, Cat, more than you’ll ever know. Joshua.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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