Ma turns to Dad, and they both exchange a knowing grin. Then, Dad hands me with a shaky hand the paper he’s been holding all this time.

The moment I look at what’s on it, it feels like I’ve been punched in the solar plexus.

On the white sheet of paper is my dad’s handwriting, barely legible.

What a lot of people don’t know about Broca’s aphasia, which is the type Dad has, is that it doesn’t just affect the muscles you need to speak. It can also impair the movements responsible for written language or even sign language, making it difficult or sometimes impossible to write down a sentence.

Yet here it is, clear as day. My dad’s shaky letters. I look at them all one by one, not even getting to the meaning of the sentences. The fact that my father has been able to write this is a miracle of its own. It must’ve taken him days to do this. I’ve seen him try in the past, and drawing a letter is a tedious process for him. It’s so amazing, I can’t keep myself from smiling.

That is, until I read what he actually wrote.

Don’t keep doing this for me. Evermore is not my legacy.

You and Callie are.

It isn’t until Dad uses his cane to help himself up and wraps his thin arms around me that I realize I’m crying.

No, not just crying. Sobbing.

Like a little boy, I wrap myself in my father’s embrace and weep about his stroke. His aphasia. The loss of his old life. The fact that I might never hear him say my name again. And despite all of those hardships, his pure, undying love for me.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I cry as I grip his shirt. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be the right person for this.”

With surprising strength, he lifts my head and looks me straight in the eye. His hands grip my face, preventing me from looking away.

He doesn’t need to speak. His shiny gaze tells me everything I need to know.

I hug him even tighter for it.

After a minute, Ma joins our embrace, her tears wetting my shoulder.

And while I never thought I would come to that conclusion, maybe letting go of the farm isn’t the worst thing that could happen.

* * *

I walk out to grab the rest of the logs an hour later, feeling lighter than I have in months. Maybe not everything is right, but at least it’s on the right path.

Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll call Craig. We’ve always had a good relationship, and I know he likes my work, so I’m hoping he’ll let me turn my resignation into a leave of absence and have me back once the farm isn’t ours anymore.