The condition was clear: I couldn’t sell it. I had to keep it running, or it would be donated to a wildlife foundation. The others received cash—anywhere from $5,000 to $50,000. But the land, the heart of everything, was mine.
My cousin Brent was furious. Outside the lawyer’s office, he cornered me.
I told him the truth: I didn’t do anything but spend time with him. Maybe that was enough.
Farming had never been part of my plan. But the pull to return was undeniable. The next morning, I drove out to the farm. The house looked the same—white paint peeling, wind chimes clinking in the breeze. But my eyes went straight to the barn.
It had always been locked. As a child, I imagined it full of broken tools or dangerous things—snakes, bees, secrets. Grandpa never explained why I couldn’t go inside. But now, standing before it, I noticed something strange. The barn was weathered, sagging—but the padlock was new. Shiny. Well-oiled. Recently placed.
Curiosity burned. I tore through the farmhouse, searching for a key. After hours of rifling through drawers and cupboards, I found it tucked inside an old coffee tin behind a stack of recipe cards. The silver key felt warm in my hand.Continue reading…
