She had been furious.
"That money could have helped us."
The old man had looked down.
Then quietly answered.
"I know."
He did not argue.
Did not defend himself.
But the following morning, she found him sitting beside the window with the documents spread across his lap.
He looked tired.
Older than she remembered.
When she asked whether he slept, he shook his head.
"Not much."
She had wanted to tell him that the past was gone.
That nothing could change what happened.
That they needed to focus on surviving now.
Instead, she brought him coffee.
He thanked her.
Neither mentioned the dairy.
Now she looked at the old paperwork and wished she could return to that morning.
Not to tell him he had won.
Not to promise the land would come back.
Only to say that she understood why he could not stop asking questions.
The kitchen clock ticked.
Then footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Her son appeared wearing pajamas and carrying his grandfather's notebook.
She looked up.
"Sweetheart, why aren't you asleep?"
He hesitated.
Then whispered.
"I heard you crying."
Her expression softened.
He approached.
She held out her arms.
He climbed into the chair beside her.
For several moments, they sat quietly.
Then he looked toward the papers.
"Are you sad?"
She considered.
"A little."
He looked worried.
"Because of the farm?"
She nodded.
"Partly."
Then she touched his cheek.
"Mostly because your grandfather worked so hard to make people listen."
The boy looked toward the notebook.
"He told me once that grown-ups laughed at him."
His mother closed her eyes.
She remembered.
The county meetings.
The old lawsuits.
The neighbors who shook their heads.
The businessmen who described the grandfather as stubborn.
Then she looked toward her son.
"They laughed at you too."
He nodded.
She swallowed.
"That must have hurt."
The child considered.
"At first."
She waited.
Then he looked toward the papers.
"But when they opened the can, they stopped."
His mother smiled through tears.
"Yes."
He leaned against her shoulder.
For several moments, neither spoke.
Then the boy whispered.
"Maybe Grandpa wanted somebody to ask the question again."
His mother looked toward him.
"What question?"
He opened the notebook.