A Stranger Handed Me a Blue Box at Church and Said, “You’ll Need This Tonight”—I Wish I’d Opened It Sooner

Outside the courthouse, media swarmed, but we slipped away through a side exit. Our property had been cleared—no asset forfeiture, no government claims. Conservation groups offered to buy it.

We declined. Instead, we partnered with environmental organizations to create the Grant Redwood Preserve, an educational center teaching sustainable forestry and conservation. We hired a young couple, Jordan and Hannah, to help run it.

They reminded us of ourselves at that age—idealistic and in love. The property thrived with visitors, school groups, and grant funding. The cave systems were permanently sealed with concrete.

Our marriage rebuilt slowly. Some nights there was distance. We were different people than before, changed by trauma that didn’t have easy answers.

But we found a new normal, a new way to love each other that was harder and deeper and more honest. The week after Amber’s sentencing, her letter arrived. “Dad, would you come visit me?”

I drove three hours to the federal women’s facility and sat across from my daughter through bulletproof glass.

She looked younger without makeup, vulnerable in her orange jumpsuit. “You came,” she whispered. “I didn’t think you would.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“How’s Mom?”

“She’s recovering.”

Amber’s face crumpled.

“I think about what I did every day. I’m taking classes, therapy, trying to understand how I became this person.”

“Good,” I said. “You should.”

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