Chapter 28
No enormous windows designed
to impress people driving past.
It had a deep front porch,
a bright kitchen,
and an old stone fireplace.
The first time I stepped inside,
I knew.
It felt like somewhere
I could hear myself think.
Julia helped me establish
a long-term financial plan.
I reserved the amounts necessary
for taxes and other obligations.
I diversified my investments.
Established appropriate trusts
and estate documents.
Reviewed insurance.
Set limits on future gifts.
And decided exactly how much
of the sale proceeds
I was willing to devote
to causes I cared about.
I had spent fifteen years
making decisions with careful spreadsheets.
There was no reason
to abandon that discipline
simply because the numbers had grown.
People sometimes imagine sudden wealth
turns life into a string
of expensive purchases.
For me,
it mostly created an unfamiliar feeling.
Space.
Space to make choices.
Space to rest.
Space to say no.
Space to build something
without worrying that one storm
might destroy everything.
Yet the most surprising part
was discovering how little
I wanted to change.
I still liked old furniture.
Still preferred coffee
from my chipped blue mug.
Still hated shopping for clothes.
And I still loved my truck.
Dad offered to help me move.
This time,
I said yes immediately.
He arrived with packing boxes
and the same old toolbox.
Mom came with sandwiches.
Willa appeared after lunch
and insisted on carrying
every lightweight box herself.
We spent the afternoon
sorting through fifteen years of belongings.
There were stacks of farm journals.
Photographs.
Books.
Tools.
An old radio.
A collection of mismatched mugs.
And a drawer filled
with screws I had been saving
for reasons I could no longer remember.
Dad opened the drawer
and laughed.
“You got that from me.”
“I certainly did.”
Mom found my first farm ledger.
She sat down
and began turning the pages.
The handwriting was cramped.
The calculations were meticulous.
Every purchase was recorded.
Every repair.
Every harvest.
Every dollar earned.
She studied the first page.
“You were so young.”
“Twenty-two when I started looking.
Twenty-three when I bought it.”
She traced one entry.
“You did all this yourself?”
I nodded.
She closed the book carefully.
Then she looked at me.
“I wish I'd known.”
I sat beside her.
“I wish you'd asked.”
She lowered her eyes.
Then nodded.
“I know.”
For once,
we didn't need to say more.
Later that afternoon,