The young woman stood beside her father's casket wearing a simple black dress.
Her chestnut hair was pinned back.
Her eyes were swollen from crying.
And she felt as though every person who approached her expected her to know what came next.
Neighbors embraced her.
Old friends told stories about her father repairing equipment in the middle of winter.
A retired fisheries technician remembered the years when the ponds supplied healthy fish to local farms.
And an elderly schoolteacher described how the father used to bring small containers of pond water to science classes so children could examine the creatures living inside.
The stories were beautiful.
But they made her grief worse.
Every person seemed to possess a version of her father she'd never fully understood.
To her, he'd become the stubborn man who refused to abandon three failing ponds.
To others, he remained a generous neighbor, a skilled mechanic, and a farmer who never stopped helping people.
She wondered when the distance between them had become so great.
After the service, the land buyer approached.
He wore a dark suit and carried a small arrangement of white flowers.
His expression was solemn.
At first, she was grateful.
Then he placed one hand against her shoulder.
"Your father was a difficult man."
The woman stiffened.
The buyer continued.
"But he worked hard."
She looked toward him.
"Thank you for coming."
He nodded.
Then lowered his voice.
"If you need assistance handling the property, I know the situation is complicated."
The woman swallowed.
"Not today."
He smiled sympathetically.
"Of course."
Then he handed her a business card.
"Just remember, I'm willing to help."
She took it because refusing would have created another uncomfortable scene during a day already filled with pain.
Later, she found the card inside her coat pocket.
On the back, he'd written a number.
Fourteen thousand dollars.
An offer for the ponds and the adjoining southern parcel.
She stared at it.
Then tore the card in half.
She didn't yet know that the man offering to relieve her financial burden had already been studying the commercial value of her father's land for years.
Nor did she know that her father had left a carefully documented account of their previous conversations.
The attorney managing the estate contacted her the following Monday.
The meeting took place in a small office near the county courthouse.
The attorney was a sixty-four-year-old woman who had represented agricultural families for more than thirty years.
She had known the girl's father for decades.
She remembered him as an honest man with a tendency to delay decisions until he understood every detail.
When the daughter entered, the attorney stood.
Then embraced her.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart."