Travis didn’t answer her right away. He reached across the table and moved the butter dish an inch, the way his father used to when he was stalling. Then he said, “It’s Grandma’s, Lily. Every inch. Even under my shop.” Lily nodded like that settled it and went back to her corn.

But Travis didn’t. He pushed back his chair, went out to his truck, and came back with a long envelope, folded in half and soft from his shirt pocket. I knew that envelope. I had hidden it in the bottom of my sewing basket in December. He set it beside my plate, and his voice cracked like it hadn’t since he was fourteen. “Mom,” he said. “When were you going to tell me about your heart?”