“Your father is telling people we mishandled the farm accounts.”
Nate rubbed his forehead.
“I knew he’d be angry. I didn’t think he’d go that far.”
“We need to protect ourselves.”
We spent the evening organizing ten years of records.
I had saved copies of bank reconciliations, invoices, grain settlements, machinery receipts, insurance documents, and payment approvals.
Every major transaction had a date.
Every check had a corresponding invoice.
And every wedding payment had Vern’s signature.
The next morning, Paul walked into the kitchen carrying his phone.
“Vern called me again.”
I looked up.
“What did he say?”
“He wants me to send Nate back to the farm for a few days to help with repairs.”
Nate shook his head.
“He can hire somebody.”
Paul nodded.
“That’s what I told him.”
Then Paul added:
“He also said you took advantage of his generosity.”
I couldn’t help myself.
I laughed.
Ten years.
A trailer with a failing furnace.
A combined income that barely covered necessities.
And somehow, we were the ungrateful ones.
That afternoon, I received a message from Tiffany.
I hadn’t spoken to her since the wedding.
She wrote:
Holly, Mom told me you and Nate are upset about the wedding expenses. I hope you understand that it was my special day. I didn’t know you were having financial problems.
I read it carefully.
Then I replied:
Congratulations again on your wedding. I hope you understand that Nate and I weren’t upset about your wedding. We were upset that your parents could find sixty thousand dollars for one weekend but couldn’t find five hundred extra dollars a month for the two people keeping their farm running.
She didn’t respond.
Two days later, she called.
Her voice was different.
“Holly, did you really ask Dad for a raise?”
“Yes.”
“And he refused?”
“Yes.”
“But he spent the money on the wedding?”
“Every dollar was recorded in the farm books. Your father approved the payments.”
There was a long pause.
Then she whispered:
“I didn’t know.”
I believed her.
Tiffany had never been responsible for the farm’s finances.
She had grown up believing her parents had everything under control.
She wasn’t the person who had rejected our request.
But she was part of a family that had become accustomed to our sacrifices.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said.
It wasn’t much.
But it was the first apology I’d heard from anyone in that family.
Meanwhile, the farm continued operating without us.
At first, Vern hired two temporary workers.
One quit after nine days.
The other refused to operate the combine without additional training.
Then the grain buyer called.
There was a discrepancy between the stored grain inventory and the numbers submitted in the previous report.
Vern called me.
I didn’t answer.
He called again.
Then Nate’s phone rang.
“Dad needs help with the grain records.”
Nate put it on speaker.
“Which records?”
“Just the inventory.”
“You have the inventory.”
“Your mother can’t understand the spreadsheet.”
Nate looked at me.
“Then hire an accountant.”
“We don’t need an accountant. We need you two.”
Nate took a breath.
“Dad, we don’t work there anymore.”
Vern’s voice grew louder.
“You’re really going to let your own family struggle?”
Nate answered calmly.
“We struggled for ten years, Dad. You didn’t seem worried then.”
The call ended.
The following Monday, Vern showed up at Paul’s equipment shop again.
This time, he wasn’t wearing his usual confident expression.
He looked tired.
He asked to speak with both of us.
Paul agreed, but only after making it clear that we were meeting during our lunch break and would return to work afterward.
Vern sat across from us.
He placed his hat on the table.
“I need help.”
Nate said nothing.
“The grain records are a mess. Your mother is overwhelmed. The new workers don’t know the machinery.”
I waited.
Then Vern looked at me.
“Holly, could you come back for a few weeks and straighten out the books?”
I folded my hands.
“At what rate?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“What’s the hourly rate?”
He shifted in his chair.
“We’re family. We don’t need to discuss money right now.”
I looked at Nate.
He gave me a small nod.
“Then we don’t need to discuss coming back.”
Vern stared at us.
He had expected us to agree.
He had expected us to rescue him.
Just as we had done every other time something went wrong.
But those days were over.
Then he said something that made the room completely silent.
“Your grandfather would be ashamed of you, Nate.”
Nate leaned forward.
“No, Dad. Grandpa would probably be ashamed that you learned to treat your family like free labor.”
Vern stood.
His face had turned red.
He picked up his hat.
And walked out.
But that wasn’t the last time he would come looking for us.
Three weeks later, an envelope arrived at our new house.
It contained a letter from an attorney.
Vern was demanding a formal accounting of the farm records and claiming that several financial documents were missing.
My stomach tightened.
Nate read the letter over my shoulder.
“He’s trying to scare us.”
I looked at the envelope.
“Then let’s make sure he understands exactly what we have.”
We contacted an attorney.
We brought every record, every reconciliation, every signed invoice, and every bank statement.
The attorney examined the documents for several hours.
Finally, he looked up.
“Holly, you kept excellent records.”
