My husband became an organ donor as his final wish — after he died, his doctor stopped me and said, "There's something he made me promise to give you only after he was gone."

Ruth brought the journal out from a bedroom at the back of the house.

It was a plain thing — dark blue cover, no label, the spine slightly bent from use.

She set it on the table between us and left the room without a word.

Diane looked at me.

"You don't have to read it today."

"I know," I said.

I picked it up.

The early entries were from two years before Caroline died.

Her handwriting was looped and quick, the kind that moves faster than the thoughts can slow down.

She wrote about Daniel's first words, about a difficult winter, about a neighbor who brought soup when she came home from her first round of treatment.

I moved forward through the pages.

Then I found the entry dated eleven months before she died, and I stopped.

*I finally did it.

I finally called him.

I know I said I wouldn't, but Daniel asked about his father again last night and I just — I couldn't keep saying "someday." I called the number I still had and a woman answered.

She sounded kind.

She said Mark was resting and she would tell him I'd called.*

*He called back the same evening.

His voice was different.

Quieter.

He told me he was ill.

He told me about Sarah, his wife.

He said she didn't know about Daniel.*

*I told him he had to tell her.*

*He said he would.

He promised.*

I set the journal down for a moment.

Picked it up again.

*He called me back two weeks later.

He still hadn't told her.

He said he kept trying and he kept losing his nerve.

He said he was afraid of what it would do to her, with the baby coming.

I told him that wasn't his decision to make for her.

He agreed.

He said he would tell her before the end.*

*I believe he meant it.

I'm not sure he was capable of it.*

I turned more pages.

*Something is wrong.

Not with me — with the money.*

I sat up straighter.

*Mark set up an account for Daniel eight months ago.

He gave me the details, told me it would be managed by his estate.

Small monthly payments, nothing dramatic, just enough to help Mum with the costs.*

*Last month the payment didn't come.

I called the number Mark gave me and it rang out.

I wrote to the address and got no response.*

*I did some digging.

The account Mark described — it was set up through a solicitor.

A man named Garrett.

I found a phone number for the firm.*

*Garrett told me the account had been closed.*

*I asked who authorized the closure.*

*He said he wasn't able to share that information.*

*I pushed.

He said the authorization came from a family member with power of attorney.*

*Mark was still alive when that account was closed.*

Diane had leaned in beside me.

She read the same lines I had just read.

She didn't say anything.

I turned to the next entry.

*I can't prove anything.

I'm too ill to fight this properly and I know it.

But I know what I know.

Someone found out about Daniel and closed that account deliberately.

Someone who didn't want that money going anywhere.*

*Mark has a brother.

His name is Richard.

Mark mentioned him once — said they had never been close, said Richard had always been difficult about money.

Said their father's estate had caused a permanent rift.*

*I don't know if it was Richard.

I don't know anything for certain.*

*But I want whoever reads this to know: Daniel did not lose that money because Mark forgot him.

Daniel lost it because someone made sure he would.*

The last entry was written in a shakier hand, clearly near the end.

*I don't have much time left to write.

I want to say one thing clearly.*

*Mark loved Daniel.

He never held him, never met him, but he loved him.

I know that.

I could hear it in his voice every time we spoke.*

*If Sarah is reading this — if she came — then Mark was right about her.*

*Please make sure Daniel knows his father was a good man.

That's all I'm asking.*

*The rest — the account, Richard, all of it — I leave to whoever is brave enough to look.*

I closed the journal.

The television was still on in the other room.

I could hear a cartoon, something bright and cheerful, and underneath it the small sound of Daniel shifting on the floor.

"Richard," Diane said quietly.

"Mark's brother," I said.

"Did Mark ever talk about him?"

I thought back.

Mark had mentioned Richard twice in three years, both times briefly, both times with a tightness around his mouth that I hadn't pressed on.

"He said they didn't speak much," I said.

"He said it was about money."

Diane looked at the journal.

"And while Mark was dying, Richard had power of attorney."

My stomach turned.

"Mark gave it to him," I said slowly.

"About two months before the end.

He said Richard was the only family he had left who could handle the paperwork.

I remember thinking it was strange — they weren't close — but Mark said it was just practical."

"Practical," Diane repeated.

I stood up.

Ruth appeared in the doorway as if she had been listening for the sound of movement.

"Did you know about the account?" I asked her.

"The money Mark set up for Daniel?"

Ruth's jaw tightened.

"I knew it stopped.

I didn't know why.

I didn't want to cause trouble for Mark while he was still—" She stopped.

"I should have pushed harder."

"Do you know Richard?" I asked.

Something moved across her face.

"He called here once.

About six weeks after the money stopped.

He said he was calling on Mark's behalf to make sure Daniel was being looked after." A pause.

"He asked a lot of questions.

How old Daniel was.

Whether Caroline had left any documents.

Whether I had any written agreements with Mark."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him Daniel was fine and I didn't see how it was his business." Her voice was flat.

"He didn't call again."

I picked up the journal from the table.

"May I take this?" I asked.

Ruth nodded without hesitation.

I walked back through the sitting room.

Daniel was lying on the floor in front of the television, one arm folded under his chin, completely absorbed.

He didn't look up.

But as I reached the front door, his voice came from behind me.

"Are you coming back?"

I turned around.

He was still looking at the screen.

"Yes," I said.

"I'm coming back."

He nodded once, like that settled something, and turned back to his cartoon.

Outside, Diane and I stood at the gate.

The tricycle was still tipped on its side near the step.

"What are you going to do?" she said.

I looked down at the journal in my hands.

"I'm going to find out exactly what Richard did," I said.

"And then I'm going to make sure Daniel gets every penny Mark meant for him."

Diane was quiet for a moment.

Then: "Do you know how to reach Richard?"

"No," I said.

"But I know where to start."

I thought of the solicitor's name Caroline had written.

Garrett.

And the firm.

Somewhere in Mark's paperwork at home — in the filing box I had never fully gone through because going through it meant accepting he was gone — there would be a name, an address, a number.