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“Won’t be enough. These people—our local customers—they’re generous and supportive, but they’re not millionaires. They’re going to give what they can, but it’ll be a drop in the bucket.”
He’s right. I know it. He knows it.
Disappointed, I shake my head. “We agreed the farm was off limits.”
“No, Hannah,yousaid that, but I never promised anything. You’re my daughter. Don’t ask me to choose between you and material possessions.”
Our home isn’t just a possession. It’s a legacy. It’s a business that’s represented security, prosperity, and everything that’s good in the world since 1928.
My parents are in their mid-fifties. They should be thinking about retirement, not slaving away all day to set up lights, tables, chairs, and decorations to try to save their only child.
And now they might lose the farm that’s been in our family for four generations.
“I won’t agree to it.” I raise my chin stubbornly. “You can’t make me sign anything.”
As fathers tend to get the last word when they put their foot down, my dad wins the argument when he says, “You don’t have to. You might be a partner in this business, but it’s my name on the deed.”
HANNAH
Unfortunately, whatever reprieve I had from my pain earlier was temporary.
The pounding in my head is back with a vengeance, and I let the hot water from the shower drench my hair. I’d wanted to keep my braids dry so I could just let them out for an effortlessly wavy look, but I need the massaging spray on my scalp.
I’ll just have to let it air-dry. It’s not like anyone showing up tonight expects me to look like a million bucks. I’m sick, and I might as well appear that way. Maybe looking like hell will dredge up some extra sympathy.
And I hate that.
I absolutely loathe the thought of asking for handouts, but my pride is on the back burner. Actually, it’s not even on the stove. It’s inside the damn oven, on the top rack, with the broil setting on.
By the time I’m dressed in my favorite white cotton skirt and a lightweight denim button-up shirt, I’m exhausted. All I want to do is lie down and sleep, but I need to suck it up.
The prickling in my leg and foot is worse, and I try to rub my thigh, just to get some relief. But touching it only increases the sensation. Any pressure on it brings on more of those needles, making them go deeper.
I let out a shaky breath as I unzip my makeup bag.
My hand trembles while I apply concealer to the purple circles under my eyes, and when I’m putting some much-needed blush on my cheeks, the brush falls from my grip and clatters on the wooden floor.
“Damn it,” I hiss, searching for where it went while being careful not to tip out of my seat.
“Let me help,” Mom says from the doorway, sweeping in with the grace of someone who used to dance for a living.
Her light-brown hair is in a loose bun, and she broke out one of her ‘date-night’ dresses to look her best. The green, knee-length gown with lace detail on the cap-sleeves is the perfect blend between effortless and formal. She’s beautiful, yet approachable. Matching stilettos make her legs look even longer, her body willowy and slender from years of training.
Once upon a time, my mother was one of the best ballet dancers in New York. She’d been raised among the elites of society, with a lot of money. But with the wealth came rules and expectations. Her parents controlled every aspect of her life, from the college she attended to the men she dated.
There came a point when the stress of being perfect all the time was just too much, and she needed a break. A change in scenery. So she took a seasonal summer job here on the farm on a whim. It was supposed to be temporary, but she never left.
She and my dad fell in love, and there was no looking back for her. It caused quite a stir for her and her family. When she told them she was marrying my dad and moving to Vermont for good, they disowned her.
Although that all happened before I was born, I know it’s been a source of grief for her over the years. These relationships she’d had all her life just ended so abruptly, and it left a void in her heart that could never be refilled.
I think that’s one of the reasons she and I are so close—she took all the love she had to give and poured every drop of it into me.
Trying not to be like her mom, she never pushed me into any life decisions, including joining the family business. However, I suspect she’d hoped for it. She and my father wanted to be able to pass the farm down to me. When I decided to become a full-time partner a couple years ago, she was ecstatic.
My throat starts to close at the thought of what emotional state my parents will be in when I’m no longer here.
At least they have each other.
