“‘Dot, we are not wealthy people. We have to be smart,’ my husband told me for thirty-one years, and I believed him while I clipped Sunday coupons, bought my dresses at Goodwill, and kept our thermostat low through every Indiana winter—until four days after his funeral I walked into the garage, looked at the old black safe behind his tool chest, and realized the careful little life I had been living might have been the last lie Harold Callaway ever told me.”
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