She had protected her unborn child.
She had protected her family.
And when she could no longer speak for herself, she had arranged for the truth to speak for her.
That was her final gift.
Not the money.
Not the company.
Not the property.
The truth.
Years later, Noah asked me about his mother.
We sat beneath the old oak tree.
He was old enough to understand.
I handed him the first letter Lily had written for him.
He read it slowly.
Then he looked at me.
“Was Mom scared?”
I took a breath.
“Yes.”
“Did she know she was going to die?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she alone?”
“No.”
I touched his shoulder.
“She had people who loved her.”
He looked at the letter again.
“Did she love me?”
I smiled through tears.
“More than anything.”
He was quiet.
Then he asked,
“What happened to Dad?”
I looked toward the horizon.
