I could tell she knew something was wrong, too.
The isolation was the hardest part.
After Margaret died, Michael and his family were nearly all I had left nearby. My daughter, Sarah, lived across the country in Oregon with her husband and children. We spoke regularly on the phone, but with airfare, school schedules, and work obligations, I only saw her once or twice a year.
Michael had been my closest connection to the family Margaret and I had built.
Now he was pulling away, and it felt as though I were losing another part of myself.
Many nights, I sat alone on the porch and looked across the property while the evening light faded over the Tennessee hills.
I wondered what I had done wrong.
Was I being stubborn?
Was I refusing to see reality?
Should I sell the land simply to keep peace with my son?
Each time those questions began to weaken my resolve, I remembered Margaret’s face on the day we first bought the property.
