Page 83 of Lying Is My Love Language

‘We’re holding on by a thread.’There’s no drama in his voice.No plea for sympathy.It’s the cold hard truth.

I swallow the lump in my throat.‘What about selling?’

He’s quiet for a long time.‘I’ve thought about it,’ he says.‘For years.’

I wait.

‘My dad …’ He trails off, shakes his head.‘He was adamant we keep it.That letting it go would be a betrayal.A failure.He saw it as his duty to keep doing what the generations before him worked hard for.’

I study his profile, the line of his jaw, the way his mouth tightens as if still convincing himself he isn’t allowed to let go.

‘And what do you want?’I ask softly.

He finally looks at me, the weight of years in his eyes.‘I want to not feel as if every choice I make is disappointing the ghosts of people before me.’

I blink fast.That thing in my chest – whatever it is – tightens.

He glances back out at the herd.‘If I sold even part of it, I’d be out of debt tomorrow.But it was his dying wish not to.And now I’m stuck with a dead man’s promise.’

I don’t know what to say.

So, I don’t say anything.

I reach forward, rest my hand lightly over Luke’s on the steering wheel.

He doesn’t flinch.

He lets my hand stay there.

I feel how the weight of this place is not only the physical things – the land, the heat, the cattle – it’s the history.The pressure of inheritance.The cost of memory.It’s crushing.

And he’s still here.Still trying.

And I have no idea what to do with that.

Luke gets out and opens the gate before jumping back behind the wheel and driving through.He moves to get out again, but I’m faster this time – half to be helpful, half to prove I’m not useless.My high-tops crunch against the dirt as I hop out and jog to the fence, fingers fumbling with the latch before swinging it closed.When I climb back in and shut the door, Luke glances over and gives me the faintest smile.It barely lifts the corner of his mouth.Yet it still counts.

‘Thanks.’

We drive further into the paddock, the tyres dipping and groaning over uneven ground, until Luke gives a low sigh and slows to a stop.‘Damn.’

That one word carries too much weight.

‘What?’I ask, already scanning the field.

He doesn’t answer.Not with words.He opens the door and steps out.I follow, because staying in the car suddenly feels cowardly.

A few metres ahead, a small calf stands alone.If you can call it standing.Its legs are wobbly, head low, ribs visible in stark detail beneath patchy hair.It looks less like a baby animal and more like a painting of one – something unfinished, half erased.

Luke approaches the calf slowly, carefully.It doesn’t even try to run.He crouches, one arm wrapping around its middle, and with shocking ease, he lifts it into his arms.

‘The mum’s abandoned her,’ he says, not even out of breath.

I frown.‘Why?’

‘When there’s not enough food around, some mothers stop producing milk.Sometimes they choose not to waste their energy on it.’

‘That’s …’ My words falter.‘Awful.’