When I woke, the lights were still on in our old farmhouse across the road.

Someone stood at the kitchen window.

Watching.

The next morning, while I was carrying seed bags, I heard footsteps behind me.

It was Luke.

Randy’s twenty-four-year-old son.

He’d recently graduated from the University of Nebraska.

I hadn’t spoken to him properly since Jeff’s funeral.

“Aunt Melissa,” he said.

“Morning, Luke.”

He looked at the planter.

“Your sixth row was skipping yesterday.”

“I fixed it.”

He nodded.

Then he studied the stack of seed bags.

“Let me operate the tractor today. You can haul seed. We’ll get twice as much done.”

I hesitated.

“Your father needs you.”

“Uncle Scott’s handling their planter this morning.”

He looked down.

“Besides, I need to tell you something.”

I waited.

“I didn’t know Dad was going to give you that check at the funeral.”

His voice became quieter.

“And I never asked him to make you leave so quickly.”

I looked at him.

“He wanted you to have a place to come home to.”

“I know,” Luke admitted. “I accepted because I didn’t think about what it meant for you and Abby.”

He paused.

“Uncle Jeff taught me how to operate a planter when I was eleven. I think he’d want me to help.”

My eyes filled with tears.

“Then climb aboard.”

Luke worked the field all morning.

Abby sat beside him wearing her father’s cap.

I hauled supplies and helped refill the planter.

With Luke operating the equipment, our progress improved dramatically.

Around noon, Scott arrived pulling the partnership’s seed tender.

He positioned it beside my planter and began filling the boxes.

He worked quietly.

When he’d finished, he left the equipment near the field.

“You’ll need it for the rest of the week,” he said.

I stared at him.

“Scott, are you sure?”

He nodded.

Then his eyes filled with tears.

“I should have spoken up at the funeral.”

He looked toward the gravel road.

“Randy handled everything, and I let him. Jeff had barely been laid to rest, and we were already asking his wife to move out.”

He swallowed.

“I’m sorry, Melissa.”

I touched his arm.

“Thank you.”

That day, Luke and I planted nearly forty acres.

A gentle rain arrived on Friday.

For the first time in weeks, I stood at my kitchen window feeling grateful.

The freshly planted ground was receiving exactly what it needed.

On Saturday evening, Lori called.

“Sunday dinner is at twelve-thirty,” she announced.

I remained silent.

“Melissa, I’m setting places for you and Abby. You’re still family.”

The following day, we returned to our old farmhouse.

Walking through the back door as a guest felt strange.

The kitchen smelled of roast beef and fresh bread.

Everyone was already seated.

Randy stood when we entered.

That surprised me.

He waited until Abby and I sat down.

Then he cleared his throat.

“Melissa, there’s something I need to say.”

The table became quiet.

“I told myself the buyout was necessary because the bank wanted our finances settled.”

He paused.

“That was partly true. But the real reason was Luke.”

Luke looked toward his father.

“I wanted him to have a home when he returned,” Randy continued. “And I convinced myself that giving you a large check would make everything easier.”

He lowered his eyes.

“But I handled it badly. The timing was wrong. I should have thought about you and Abby.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Randy continued.

“I watched you working that field alone the first day. I saw you lifting those heavy bags, and I realized how badly I’d treated Jeff’s family.”

His voice trembled.

“I’m sorry.”

I looked at him quietly.

Then he made an offer.

“If you want the old house back, we’ll arrange it. Luke can live somewhere else.”

I shook my head.

“Thank you, Randy. But I already have a house.”

He looked surprised.

“Across the road,” I continued. “With eighty acres I’m determined to farm.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“Then what can we do?”

“I’d like Abby and me to keep coming to Sunday dinner.”

Lori immediately nodded.

“And when harvest comes, I’d like to hire your combine at a fair rate.”

Randy waved a hand.

“You can use it free.”

I smiled.

“Jeff would never have accepted that.”

Randy laughed softly.

“No. He would’ve argued with me about the price for an hour.”

Then Abby removed Jeff’s green cap and placed it on the table.

Randy stared at it.

His expression changed.

“I gave Jeff that hat,” he whispered.

He gently touched the brim.

“He was sixteen. I bought it at a seed meeting. He wore it every spring afterward.”

His voice broke.

For the first time since the funeral, I saw Randy cry.

Nobody rushed him.

Nobody tried to change the subject.

We simply sat together, remembering the man we’d lost.

After dinner, Luke disappeared into the pantry.

When he returned, he was carrying a long piece of painted wood.

It was part of the old pantry doorframe.

Every birthday, Jeff had stood Abby beside that frame and marked her height with a pencil.

Twelve marks covered the wood.

The final one read:

Abby, 12 — last November.

Luke handed it to her.

“I removed it carefully this morning. I thought you should have it.”

Abby ran her fingers over the marks.

Then she hugged him tightly.

I watched them, struggling to hold back tears.

That small piece of wood meant more to us than anything expensive we could have carried from the old farmhouse.

The following Monday, we finished planting all eighty acres.

Luke drove the tractor.

I managed the supplies.

Abby rode beside him in Jeff’s cap.

Across the road, Randy was completing the family’s final field.

As evening approached, both tractors switched on their lights.

I stood beside Abby watching them move across the darkening fields.

“Count the passes,” I whispered.

She smiled.

Then she raised one hand to hold her father’s cap in place.

Just as she’d done when riding with him.

Summer brought uncertainty.

Rainfall had been poor in previous years, and our crop wasn’t insured.

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