“Mom is gone, Dad.”
The words landed harder than he probably understood.
“She’s been gone for two years,” he continued. “You need to move on. You need to think about the future.”
“I am thinking about the future.”
“No, you’re living in the past.”
“My future is right here, in this house and on this land. I’m not selling, Michael. Not now. Not ever. You need to accept that.”
He stood so abruptly that his chair scraped backward across the kitchen floor and nearly tipped over.
“Fine,” he said. “Keep your precious land. But don’t come running to me when you can’t take care of it anymore. Don’t expect me to rearrange my life when you’re old, alone, and suddenly decide you need help.”
The words were chosen carefully.
They were meant to wound me.
And they did.
Still, I held my ground.
