Every summer when I was twelve, Robert had stood by this same oak tree complaining about the cost of hay bales, the cost of diesel, and the cost of property taxes.

He had told me we were one hard winter away from losing the house to the county.

I stopped in the shadow of the oak branches and held the option contract up into the yellow circle of light.

He had never been worried about losing the farm.

He had just been waiting for Thomas to die so he could sell sixty acres to a shopping mall developer.

My whole life with my parents hadn’t been built on strict family discipline or quiet sacrifice.