Those words, spoken with uncharacteristic intensity, were among the few demands my husband Joshua ever made during our twenty-four years of marriage. I had always respected his wishes, even when curiosity gnawed at me during those rare moments when he’d mentioned his Canadian childhood on a property he’d left behind.
But now Joshua was gone—taken by a heart attack that no one, not even me, had seen coming. After twenty-four years of marriage, I had become a widow at fifty-two, 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 reduced to paperwork and ink. “There’s one more item. If you’re watching, please like and subscribe to the channel and tell me in the comments where in the world you’re from.”
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.” Mr. Winters adjusted his glasses. “The deed has been transferred to your name. All taxes are paid for the next five years.”
“A property in Canada?” I struggled to process the information. Joshua didn’t own any property 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’d forbidden me to visit—the place that had caused his gentle face to harden 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? 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 with questions. Joshua had never mentioned oil, money, or any 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 to buy a farm? 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. Joshua was the most rational person I’ve ever known.”
“Nevertheless, they 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 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, and 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 that 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.
The men approached the house with the confident stride of people who believed they belonged there. I quickly closed and locked the front door, my heart racing. Through the side window, I watched them pause on the porch, conferring among themselves before the oldest—a silver-haired version of Joshua with harder eyes—rapped sharply on the door.
“Mrs. Mitchell, we know you’re in there. We should talk.”
His voice carried the same Canadian accent that had softened Joshua’s speech when he was tired or upset.
I remained silent, backing away from the door. Joshua’s warning about his family had always been vague but emphatic. Now, faced with their unexpected arrival, instinct told me to be cautious.
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, or to meet the wife their brother had loved for twenty-four years. They were here about the suddenly valuable property.
I glanced at the laptop on the desk. Whatever answers I needed might be there—not with the strangers on the porch.
Ignoring the increasingly aggressive knocking, I moved to the desk, opened the computer, and entered the password: ZO5151998Mitchell.
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 his funeral, and extending a full year into the future.
With trembling fingers, I clicked the first one.
Joshua’s face filled the screen. Not the thin, pale version from his final months, but healthy, vibrant—clearly 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 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 looked down briefly, then back at the camera with determination.
“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 could see the men returning to their vehicle, retrieving documents, conferring with stern expressions.
Joshua continued.
“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.”
His eyes softened.
