Grandpa never complained. He simply glanced at the growing line of muddy boots by the door and smiled. “More boots, more blessings.”
When his health began slipping, it was gradual at first. Misplaced tools. Feed forgotten. Stairs that seemed steeper than before.
So I stepped up.
I managed harvest season. Met with suppliers. Balanced accounts late at night after the kids were asleep. When frost destroyed half a crop, I quietly secured a loan and carried the worry alone.
Meanwhile, his only daughter—my Aunt Linda—was busy in Chicago sharing photos of rooftop cocktails and spa days. She’d always said farm life was beneath her.
She phoned Grandpa when she needed money.
When hospice began, she didn’t come. Not even when the nurse gently suggested, “It might be time.”
I was holding his hand when he passed at 5:12 on a Tuesday morning.
Linda arrived later that day in a polished black Mercedes.
She didn’t embrace me.
