I drag myself to the meat room and uncover the box of money. I take it inside, pull out all the cash and throw it on the floor. I feel through all the seams in the box, pull open the bottom, and run my fingers through any gap I can find. Nothing. It is becoming less real. For a moment, I think I’ve imagined my phone call with Constable Murray, or I’ve misunderstood what she was trying to tell me. Was it in some sort of code that I should have understood? Is there an undercurrent that I have completely missed? I upend the box and shake it in fury, but nothing comes out. In my frustration, I tear at the corner of the box, and it comes away in my hands. I see a mess of writing across one of the panels. It looks a lot like my father’s handwriting, scrawled in blue-ink pen. I sit on the floor, and rip at the crease so I can see the writing clearly. It is a letter, written directly onto the cardboard inside of the box, that starts ‘Dear Son’, but I can hardly read it, because my hands are shaky and out of control. It continues:

I know this is going to seem very strange to you. A box of money coming to you from your dead father. I’m aware money doesn’t buy happiness or love, but it can surely help. I know how hard it can be on the land, and I thought a lump sum coming out of the blue at a time when all your lump sums (probably) were gone would be a blessing for you and Sarah. Marriage is hard. Your mother and I struggled at times. At least the way we did it: for better or for worse. But I always loved her.

I knew she wasn’t right for a long time before I admitted it to myself. When she finally went into the hospital, I was so worried there would never be enough money to keep paying her medical bills. Doctors kept telling me patients with dementia could live healthy lives for years, even if they couldn’t remember where they were and the people around them. The only things I could think of to do were to sell the farm or take a huge punt. You know what I did.