He’d known our family for decades.
When I explained Mom’s situation, his voice became serious.
“Is Elsie warm?”
“She’s wearing her winter coat indoors,” I replied. “It’s fifty-one degrees inside.”
Duane paused.
He couldn’t drive the propane truck through the snow-covered road that night, but he promised to come as soon as the county plow cleared it.
In the meantime, he suggested conserving the remaining fuel and using a small electric heater if we had one.
I remembered that Dad had kept a heater in the basement.
After searching behind the water softener, I found it.
I carried it upstairs, placed it safely near Mom’s chair, and closed the doors to the unused rooms.
Then I wrapped another blanket around her.
I gave her my winter parka too.
Finally, I sat on the floor beside her recliner.
I didn’t sleep.
Every time the furnace made a faint noise, I listened, terrified it might stop completely.
Outside, the wind howled across the fields.
Inside, I watched my mother breathe.
At sunrise, I heard the county snowplow scraping along the road.
It was the most reassuring sound I’d heard all night.
Later that morning, I contacted the cooperative again.
I learned that Mom’s propane account was registered under Pam’s name.
I asked whether I could take responsibility for it.
The receptionist explained that I could establish a new account.
So I did.
I transferred the responsibility into my name.
By afternoon, Duane finally arrived with the propane truck.
When he saw Mom standing in the doorway wearing her coat and hat, he looked heartbroken.
“Mrs. Heinz, I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”
Mom insisted she was fine.
But Duane could see the frost on the windows.
He filled the tank to eighty percent.
Three hundred and seventy-five gallons.
The bill came to $783.75.
I paid with my credit card.
Then I asked him about an automatic delivery service.
Duane explained that the cooperative could install a monitor that alerted them whenever the fuel level dropped to thirty percent.
They would refill the tank automatically.
Nobody would have to remember to call.
“Sign us up,” I said. “And bill everything to me.”
After he left, I turned the thermostat to seventy.
The furnace roared back to life.
Warm air began flowing through the house.
For the first time all night, I could breathe normally.
An hour later, the temperature had risen significantly.
Mom slowly removed her gloves.
Then her knitted hat.
Finally, she took off the heavy brown coat she’d been wearing indoors.
She carried it to the kitchen and hung it on its usual hook.
For several seconds, she simply stood there.
Then she whispered,
“I’d forgotten how wonderful a warm house feels.”
That evening, I texted Rob and Dean.
I told them Mom’s tank was full and that future propane contributions should come directly to me.
Both brothers called immediately.
They wanted to know what had happened.
I told them Mom was safe and promised we’d discuss everything face-to-face at Easter.
But I didn’t contact Pam.
Five days later, she called me.
“The cooperative says you moved Mom’s account into your name,” she said without greeting me.
“Yes.”
“You went behind my back.”
I took a breath.
“Pam, I found Mom sleeping in her winter coat. The house was fifty-one degrees, and the propane tank was almost empty.”
She said nothing.
“Pam?”
Then she hung up.
We didn’t speak again for eleven weeks.
During that time, my anger grew.
Every night, I thought about the October receipt.
My brothers and I had sent $750.
Pam had purchased only $400 worth of fuel.
Where had the remaining $350 gone?
Had she ever contributed her own share?
I imagined her using Mom’s heating money to pay household bills.
And I couldn’t forgive the thought that she’d allowed our elderly mother to freeze.
One evening, Steve asked whether I’d considered calling her.
“She hung up on me,” I replied.
“Connie, do you actually know what happened?”
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
Because the answer was no.
I knew what the receipt showed.
I knew Mom had been cold.
But I didn’t know the whole story.
Still, I was too angry to make the call.
So I waited until Easter.
Every Easter, our family gathered at Mom’s farmhouse.
That year was no different.
Steve and I drove from Bismarck on Saturday.
The snow had mostly melted, and the fields were beginning to thaw.
When we arrived, Mom greeted us wearing a blue cardigan.
No coat.
No gloves.
No winter hat.
The house was comfortably warm.
By Sunday afternoon, everyone had arrived except Pam.
Ham was roasting in the oven.
There were potatoes, green bean casserole, freshly baked rolls, and Mom’s homemade German pastries.
Rob and Dean sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee.
Then we heard a car pull into the driveway.
Pam entered carrying a cardboard box.
Balanced on top was a large, faded red coffee can.
She looked exhausted.
Her husband wasn’t with her.
Without saying hello, she placed everything on the kitchen table.
“I need to explain something,” she announced.
The room fell silent.
She looked at my brothers.
“Connie has been waiting eleven weeks to tell you what happened in January. But I want to tell you myself.”
Then she opened the coffee can.
Inside were rolled-up banknotes secured with rubber bands.
She emptied them onto the table.
“Seven hundred and fifty dollars,” she said.
“That’s what you three sent me last October.”
She swallowed.
“I spent four hundred dollars on Mom’s propane delivery.”
My chest tightened.
“The rest went toward our mortgage, electricity, and Mark’s prescriptions.”
Nobody spoke.
“And I never contributed my own $250. I couldn’t afford it.”
Pam pushed the money toward me.
“I’ve replaced every dollar. I want you to have it.”
I stared at the cash.
“Where did you get this?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I sold Grandma’s Bernina sewing machine.”
Mom made a small sound of disbelief.
Pam continued.
“I also sold the quilt rack Dad built for me and Mark’s hunting rifle. And since January, I’ve been working extra Saturday shifts at the gas station.”
