The sentence read: I owed this to your mother, and I gave it to the only one of you who never asked what it was worth. The property was the forty acres outside Wheeler, the land my mother inherited in 1979 and that my father had quietly held in his own name since her death. The deed transferred it to me. It had been signed eleven months earlier, two weeks after I put my name on the guarantee, and notarised and hidden in a drawer while I worked nights believing we were drowning.

Then he told me the rest. The debt was never his. It belonged to Roland, taken against a business that failed in 2019, and my father had assumed it personally rather than watch his eldest son lose everything, and had told nobody. He brought the envelope to that kitchen to see which of his children would stand beside him without knowing why. Roland knew exactly what he was refusing to pay. Casper did not. I did not. That was the whole of the test and my father had been carrying the shame of designing it for a year.

I was angry for about three days. Not about the money. About the fact that a dying man had felt he needed a test at all.