“Never go to the farm, Catherine. Promise me.”
Those words, spoken with uncharacteristic intensity, were among the few demands my husband Joshua ever made during our 24 years of marriage. I had respected them, even when curiosity nagged at me during those rare moments he mentioned his Canadian childhood and the property he’d left behind.

But now Joshua was gone—taken by a heart attack no one, not even me, had seen coming. After 24 years of marriage, I had become a widow at 52, with a bitter daughter and a hollow space in my chest where certainty used to live.

“Mrs. Mitchell,” the voice of Joshua’s attorney, Mr. Winters, pulled me from my thoughts. We sat in his wood-paneled office two weeks after the funeral. The finality of death had been reduced to paperwork and signatures.

“There’s one more item.”
He slid a small box across his desk. Inside lay an antique brass key attached to a maple leaf keychain and a sealed envelope with my name written in Joshua’s precise handwriting.

“What is this?” I asked, turning the heavy key in my palm.

“Your husband purchased a property in Alberta, Canada, three years ago. According to his instructions, you were only to be informed of its existence after his passing.” He adjusted his glasses. “The deed has been transferred to your name. All taxes are paid for the next five years.”

“A property in Canada?”
Joshua didn’t own anything outside of our home. “It’s called Maple Creek Farm. Apparently, it was his childhood home, though the deed shows it changed hands several times before he repurchased it.”

The farm. The place he had forbidden me to visit. The place that hardened his gentle face whenever it was mentioned.

“Mrs. Mitchell, there’s something else you should know.”
Mr. Winters lowered his voice. “The property has become quite valuable recently. There have already been inquiries about its availability.”

“Valuable?” I asked. “It’s a farm.”

“Yes, but according to my information, significant oil deposits were discovered in the region about eighteen months ago. Your husband declined multiple offers from energy companies.”

My head spun. Joshua had never mentioned oil, money, or any new property purchase. We’d lived comfortably on his engineering salary and my income as a high school English teacher—but we were hardly wealthy. How had he afforded it? And why keep it secret from me?

I opened the envelope with trembling fingers.

My dearest Catherine, if you’re reading this, then I’ve left you too soon. I’m sorry. There’s so much I should have told you, but couldn’t bring myself to face. The farm is yours now. I’ve spent the last three years transforming it from the broken place of my childhood into something beautiful, something worthy of you. I know I made you promise never to go there. I’m releasing you from that promise. In fact, I’m asking you to go—just once—before you decide what to do with it. On the main house’s desk is a laptop. The password is the date we met, followed by your maiden name. I love you, Cat, more than you’ll ever know. —Joshua

I clutched the letter to my chest, tears blurring my vision. Even from beyond the grave, Joshua was full of surprises.

“I need to see this place,” I said finally.

“Of course,” Mr. Winters nodded. “But I should warn you—Joshua’s family in Canada has contested the will. His brothers claim he was not mentally competent when he repurchased the family property.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Joshua was the most rational person I’ve ever known.”

“Nevertheless, they’ve filed legal objections. Given the property’s newfound value, it might get complicated.”

I tucked the key into my pocket, a strange determination settling over me.
“I’m going to Canada, Mr. Winters. Today.”

Forty-eight hours later—after hastily booked flights and a long drive through the Alberta countryside—I found myself standing before imposing wooden gates marked Maple Creek Farm in wrought iron.

Beyond stretched a property far larger and more impressive than I had imagined: rolling hills, stands of maple trees turning gold with autumn, and, in the distance, a large farmhouse and several outbuildings, all freshly painted.

This was no broken-down family farm. This was an estate.

The key turned smoothly in the gate’s lock. As I drove up the winding gravel driveway, my heart pounded with equal parts anticipation and apprehension. What secrets had Joshua kept here? What part of himself had he hidden from me for all these years?

The farmhouse was a stunning two-story structure with a wide porch and large windows. Nothing about it suggested the pain Joshua had always associated with his childhood home. This place had been loved, restored, reimagined.

My hands shook as I inserted the key into the front door. The lock clicked. The door swung open. I stepped across the threshold into my husband’s secret world.

What I saw inside made me gasp, my knees weakening as I gripped the doorframe for support.

The entryway opened into a soaring great room with exposed beams and a stone fireplace. But it wasn’t the architecture that stole my breath.

It was the horses.

Not real ones—but everywhere I looked: exquisite paintings of horses in full gallop across endless fields. Detailed sculptures capturing their power and grace. Photographs of magnificent breeds framed in simple black frames.

My lifelong passion, the one indulgence Joshua had always supported but never quite understood, surrounded me—in a gallery dedicated to my greatest love.

And there, on a desk by the window overlooking endless pastures, sat a silver laptop with a single red rose laid across its closed lid.

Before I could take another step, the crunch of tires on gravel announced another arrival. Through the front window, I watched a black SUV pull up behind my rental car. Three men emerged, all bearing the unmistakable Mitchell features Joshua had carried: tall frames, dark hair, strong jawlines.

The Mitchell brothers had arrived. And from their grim expressions, they hadn’t come to welcome the widow to Canada.

They approached the porch with the confident stride of people who believed they belonged there. Heart racing, I quickly closed and locked the front door. Through a side window, I saw the oldest—silver-haired, a harder version of Joshua—wrap sharply on the wood.

“Mrs. Mitchell, we know you’re in there. We should talk.”

His voice carried that familiar Canadian lilt that used to soften Joshua’s speech when he was tired. Instinct told me to stay silent. Joshua’s warnings about his family had always been vague but emphatic. Now, faced with their sudden arrival, my skin prickled with unease.

The knocking came again, more insistent.
“Catherine, I’m Robert Mitchell, Joshua’s older brother. These are our brothers, Alan and David. We’re here about the farm.”

Of course they were. They weren’t here about Joshua. They weren’t here to meet the wife their brother had loved for 24 years. They were here for the suddenly valuable property.

I turned back to the laptop on the desk. Whatever answers I needed were not outside on that porch, but here in the files Joshua had left. With trembling fingers, I opened the lid and typed in the password: the date we met, followed by my maiden name.

The screen came to life, immediately opening to a folder labeled For Catherine.

Inside were hundreds of video files, each named with a date—starting from two weeks ago, the day after Joshua’s funeral, and extending a full year into the future.

I clicked the first one. Joshua’s face filled the screen. Not the thin, pale version I’d last seen in the hospital, but healthy, vibrant—recorded some time ago. He smiled directly into the camera, that crooked grin that had always made my heart skip.

“Hello, Cat. If you’re watching this, then I’m gone—and you’ve come to the farm, despite all my years of making you promise not to.”

He chuckled softly. “I should have known you wouldn’t be able to resist, especially after Winters told you about it.”

A lump formed in my throat. Even now, he knew me so well.

“I’ve made a video for every day of your first year without me. One year of me keeping you company while you grieve. One year of explaining everything I should have told you while I was alive.”

He paused, eyes softening.
“Starting with why I bought back the farm I swore I’d never set foot on again.”

The knocking outside had stopped. Through the window, I saw the men retreating to their vehicle, retrieving papers, conferring with stiff, angry gestures.

Joshua’s voice continued, calm and steady.
“Three years ago, I was diagnosed with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy—a heart condition I inherited from my father. The doctors gave me two to five years. I chose not to tell you or Jenna. I didn’t want pity, and I didn’t want our final years overshadowed by death.”

My breath caught. The words sliced deeper than any secret yet. He had hidden his diagnosis.

“I know you’re angry right now,” he said, as though reading my mind. “You have every right to be. But I hope you’ll understand I made this choice out of love, not deception. I wanted to live fully with you until the end, not die in front of you.”

My chest burned with grief and fury. Even from beyond the grave, he still anticipated my every thought.

“When I got my diagnosis, I decided to use whatever time I had left to create something meaningful for you. You always loved horses. You always talked about having land someday where you could raise them. So I came back here, to the last place anyone would expect—the farm I’d fled at 18, vowing never to return.”

He leaned closer to the camera, his eyes hardening.
“What my brothers don’t know is that I legally bought the farm from our father before he died. The old man was broke—years of failed schemes, drinking away the family money. He sold it to me for a fraction of its worth, desperate for cash, swearing me to secrecy from my brothers, who still thought they would inherit it someday.”

I froze. So that was why Robert and the others believed they had a claim. They thought it was theirs by birthright. But Joshua had purchased it, fair and legal.

“The farm was in ruins when I bought it, Cat. Just like when I was a boy. But this time, I had the resources to transform it. Every business trip in the last three years, I was here—overseeing renovations, building something for you.”

Outside, Robert returned to the porch, pressing a document against the window: a court order of some kind. His jaw was tight with determination.

Joshua’s image continued on the laptop, voice firm now.
“My brothers will come for it, Cat. They never cared for this place until oil was discovered nearby. Suddenly, the property they mocked me for buying became valuable. They’ll try everything to take it from you.”

As if on cue, one of the brothers lifted a phone to his ear, a smile spreading across his face. I knew that expression—it was the look of someone who thought victory was inevitable.

“In the bottom drawer of this desk,” Joshua said, “is a blue folder with every legal document you’ll need. The farm is unquestionably yours. I made sure of it. But whether you keep it or sell it, that’s entirely your choice.”

His face softened again.
“I built this place for you. I filled it with beauty for you. But I don’t want it to become a burden. Do what feels right. Just know that whatever you choose, it comes from love.”

He hesitated, then smiled once more.
“Oh—and in the stables, you’ll find six horses. All breeds you’ve admired over the years. The staff I hired will continue caring for them whether you’re here or not. They’re my last gift to you—along with the means to enjoy them.”

The video ended, freezing on Joshua’s smile.

At that moment, another knock shook the door—louder this time. A man’s voice called, authoritative and clear:
“Mrs. Mitchell, RCMP. We need you to open the door, please.”

With a deep breath, I closed the laptop, pulled open the desk drawer, and retrieved the blue folder. Then I went to face whatever came next.