I always believed the farm would remain my refuge. I just never expected I’d have to defend my place on it the same week we buried my grandfather.
When my parents were killed in a car accident on a rainy October night, I was twelve. I remember the sterile hospital corridor, the sharp scent of disinfectant, and a caseworker gently talking about “arrangements” and “temporary care.”
Then I heard Grandpa’s voice.
“She’s coming home with me.”
That was all. His rough hand on my shoulder. The familiar mix of hay and peppermint on his jacket. The calm certainty that meant everything would be okay.
From that day on, the farm became my anchor.
It wasn’t perfect. The barn’s paint flaked. The roof dripped every spring thaw. But it was ours. Grandpa taught me how to read clouds before a storm and how to fix broken fencing with grit and baling wire.
When grief woke me in the middle of the night, he would sit on the edge of my bed and say, “You’re safe here, Katie. This land takes care of its own.”
Time moved forward. I married too young, divorced even faster, and eventually returned home with three children after my ex decided responsibility wasn’t his strength.
