He cut the grass, cleaned up what he had disturbed, gave Mr. Vance a wave or a quick word, and went home.
That ordinary treatment had meant more to Mr. Vance than Noah knew.
By then, Mr. Vance’s daughter had moved closer.
She stopped a respectful distance away and looked toward the letter in Noah’s hands, then toward the attorney.
“Dad wrote that for him?” she asked quietly.
The attorney nodded.
“He was very specific about who was supposed to receive it.”
She looked at Noah again.
There was grief in her face, but I didn’t see anger.
Mostly, I saw the same confusion I had felt when the attorney first walked past the front row and came toward us.
Mr. Vance’s son joined her a moment later.
For a second I worried Noah would feel as though he had been pushed into the middle of something that belonged to their family.
