Chapter 39
of the kind of conversation
I had spent years missing.
Nobody discussed the lawsuit.
Nobody mentioned the court.
Nobody asked about my bank balance.
And nobody treated my presence
as an occasion
for either pity or admiration.
I was simply Fay.
The daughter who grew tomatoes.
The aunt who knew
far too much about irrigation.
The woman who still drove
the same ridiculous pickup.
And that was enough.
After dinner,
Willa helped me clear the table.
She looked toward the window.
“Aunt Fay?”
“Yes?”
“Do you ever regret selling the farm?”
I considered the question.
“Sometimes I miss it.”
“That's not the same thing.”
I smiled.
“No, it isn't.”
She waited.
I looked around the kitchen.
The warm lights.
The flowers.
The dishes.
The people talking in the next room.
“No,” I said.
“I don't regret it.”
She smiled.
Then asked,
“Would you do anything differently?”
I thought about fifteen years
of silence and misunderstanding.
About Ranata.
About Mom and Dad.
About the money.
About all the years
I had tried to prove
I didn't need anyone.
“Yes,” I answered.
“I would have asked more questions.”
Willa tilted her head.
“About what?”
“About the people I love.”
She looked thoughtful.
Then smiled.
“I think that's good advice.”
We finished the dishes together.
Later,
after everyone had gone,
I stepped onto the porch.
The evening air was cool.
A few stars were visible
above the trees.
Inside,
the dishwasher hummed softly.
My mother's apple pie
sat beneath a glass cover.
Grandmother's letter rested
on the kitchen table.
And my old truck
was parked in the driveway,
its paint faded,
its tires dusty,
its engine still running beautifully.
I stood there smiling.
The years had changed so much.
My farm was gone.
My wealth had transformed
what was possible.
My sister was facing
the consequences of her choices.
My parents and I
were learning to love one another
without pretending
our mistakes hadn't happened.
Willa was building
a life of her own.
Desmond was rebuilding his.
And I was finally learning
that peace didn't mean
everything was perfect.
It meant I no longer needed
everything to be perfect
before I could appreciate
what was good.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Dad.
\*Made it home.
Thanks for dinner.
Love you.\*
I smiled.
Then typed back.
Love you too, Dad.
A few seconds later,
another message appeared.
And Fay?
I waited.
I'm glad you kept the truck.