After burying my wife, I finally unlocked the barn she had never allowed me to enter. For 37 years, it had been sealed off, a place she insisted held nothing but old tools and useless clutter. I expected dust, silence, and memories long forgotten.

The church was quiet that morning. Too quiet. I stood at the front staring at the wooden casket covered in white lilies. Brenda had always loved lilies. She used to grow them in the garden every spring. Now they were here resting on top of her like a blanket she would never feel.

Pastor Graham stood beside me. He said something about heaven and peace and how Brenda was in a better place now. I nodded. I did not hear most of it. My mind was somewhere else, somewhere far away from this small church in Iowa, far from the rows of neighbors and friends sitting behind me whispering their condolences.

Thirty-seven years.

That was how long we had been married. Thirty-seven years of waking up next to her, of hearing her laugh in the kitchen, of watching her work in the garden behind our farmhouse. And now she was gone.

I looked around the room. Faces I recognized. Faces I did not. And then I saw him.

Dennis, my son.