Then stared at the wall.
His mother waited.
“They can take the loan guarantee.”
“Yes.”
“If the county signs.”
“Yes.”
The Farmer Son paced.
“We owe twenty-six hundred on the tractor repair.”
“Yes.”
“Another nine hundred seed and fertilizer.”
“Yes.”
“Cash maybe eight hundred.”
“Yes.”
He turned.
“You’re very calm.”
“No.”
“You look calm.”
“That’s different.”
He laughed bitterly.
“We could lose the farm over twelve acres that are doing better than the approved plot.”
“Yes.”
He struck the table with his palm.
A cup jumped.
His mother looked at it.
“Feel better?”
“No.”
“Then don’t break dishes.”
The Farmer Son sat.
“What if we comply?”
She did not answer.
“What if we plow them?”
Still nothing.
“Mother.”
She looked at him.
“This is your share too.”
“Yes.”
“You say no.”
“I didn’t.”
“You don’t have to.”
He looked away.
She softened.
“Ask the question honestly.”
He swallowed.
“Would you hate me?”
“No.”
“If I plowed it under?”
“I would hate the decision.”
“That’s close.”
“No.”
She reached across the table.
“There is a difference between loving a person and approving what fear makes them do.”
His eyes filled.
He hated that.
“I don’t want to be the man who loses Grandpa’s farm.”
“You aren’t.”
“I could be.”
“So could I.”
“You won’t be here long enough to start over.”
The words came out.
He regretted them instantly.
His mother went still.
“Mother—”
“No.”
He covered his face.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked toward the window.
When she spoke, her voice was quiet.
“You’re right.”
He looked up.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I’m seventy.”
“Sixty-eight.”
“Close enough.”
“You’re not dying.”
“Everyone is.”
“Please.”
She smiled faintly.
“Your father hated when I said that.”
The Farmer Son’s eyes filled again.
She continued.
“You think I want the field kept because I’m sentimental.”
“Partly.”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised him.
“But mostly because once you teach a man he can threaten your loan until you obey him, you will spend the rest of your life asking which part of your farm is really yours.”
The Farmer Son stared.
She pointed toward the papers.
“That is what scares me.”
Not twelve acres.
Not beans.
Ownership without authority.
The Farmer Son breathed slowly.
“What do we do?”