One afternoon, sitting under an oak tree, trying to clean a stain off my skirt, I decided to reorganize my suitcases. I needed to lighten the load. I opened the suitcase containing Henry’s old books. I picked up his favorite volume of Pablo Neruda’s poetry.

As I shook it, a thick, manila envelope fell out. It was sealed with wax, yellowed with age. On the front, in Henry’s unmistakable, looping handwriting: To my Helen. Open only when you are alone.

My hands trembled so hard I nearly tore the paper.

Inside was a letter dated two years ago, written when Henry was hospitalized for pneumonia—a scare we thought we had overcome.

My Dearest Helen,

If you are reading this, I am gone. For fifty years, I tried to protect you from the harshness of the world. I handled the bills, the taxes, the business. I thought I was being a good husband. Now, facing my mortality, I fear I have left you defenseless.

But you are not defenseless, my love. You are wealthy.

Over the last thirty years, I invested every spare penny. I bought properties when the market was down. I bought stocks when companies were starting. I never told you because I wanted to surprise you. I wanted our golden years to be truly golden.