The handwriting is not hers.
It is rough, slanted, a little shaky in places, but familiar in a way that makes your chest hurt before your mind catches up. You have seen those letters before in old recipe notes, in the labels on coffee tins, on one birthday card from years ago that your mother kept in a drawer with thread and safety pins.
It is your father’s handwriting.
You begin to read.
Rosa,
If you are reading this, then Antonio has decided you need the truth more than you need your anger.
First, forgive me for leaving you questions. I thought I would have time to explain everything myself. Men always think there will be another evening, another payday, another chance to say the hard thing better. Then one day the world proves us fools.
There is money in the pouch. It is not much, but it is honest. I saved it little by little from jobs I took on the side. I told you I was buying materials with it because I wanted to surprise you when the time came. The key opens the metal box buried under the loose floorboard in Antonio’s back room. Inside are the deed papers and the rest.
If I am gone, you must know this: the accident was not only an accident.
You stop reading.
