…you can’t stay in our house. Don’t believe him. Our house is safe. I made sure.”
The letter was in my husband Harold’s handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere. It was dated one month before he died.
“I know our son and his wife have been talking about selling the house,” Harold wrote. “So I put it in a trust. You can live there as long as you want. Nobody can sell it without your signature and our lawyer’s. The keys in this box are for the safe deposit box at First National. The trust documents are there. I gave copies to our son to keep for you. I’m sorry if he didn’t give them to you.”
He hadn’t. My son, Jim, had told me after the funeral that Harold had left “no special arrangements” and that I’d need to decide soon whether to sell.
My daughter-in-law, Carla, had found the trust documents and Harold’s letter in Jim’s desk. Instead of destroying them, which might be traced, she’d buried them in the one place she was sure I’d never dig: behind Harold’s headstone. The Halloween decorations were meant to make me so upset I’d agree to move.
The cemetery manager, Mrs. Kim, was shaking with anger. She called the police from her office.
At the bank, I used Harold’s key. The trust documents were there, exactly as he’d said. So was a copy of a recorded video message.
In it, Harold looked thin and tired, but he was smiling. “If you’re watching this, sweetheart, you found the box. Stay in the house. Plant the tomatoes. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not strong enough.”
Carla was charged with tampering with a grave and concealing legal documents. Jim apologized and admitted he’d known about the trust but had let Carla handle it.
My grandson, Sam, is the reason I found out. I took him out for pancakes and told him he was the bravest person in our family. He asked if Grandpa would be mad that he’d told. I showed him Harold’s video. When it ended, Sam said, “He’d want you to plant the tomatoes, Grandma.” So we did. Together.
