Surely there was another paragraph.
Perhaps Dad had left me a portion of the land separately.
Maybe I’d misunderstood.
But Don folded the document.
He looked uncomfortable.
“Wade, I want you to understand something. Your father came here in November. He was mentally sound, and he knew what he was signing.”
I nodded.
“I believe you.”
“I asked him whether he wanted to explain why he’d divided things this way.”
“What did he say?”
Don hesitated.
“He said, ‘Write it exactly the way I told you.’”
I almost smiled.
That sounded like Dad.
Albert Kucera wasn’t a man who enjoyed explaining himself.
Once he’d made a decision, he expected everyone else to accept it.
My wife, Theresa kh, sat beside me.
Her hand rested firmly on my knee beneath the table.
I knew she was angry.
But she didn’t interrupt.
I stood, thanked Don, and shook his hand.
