One Last Season

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“Pack your things, Uncle Ray. You’ve got three days.” That’s how Sabina, my brother’s daughter, greeted me after the funeral. The farm I’d cared for my whole life? She was selling it to the highest bidder.

As I packed, I found my brother’s old work jacket. When I slipped it on, a crinkled note fell from the pocket. It led me to a locked chest in the loft containing proof our father had left the farm to both of us—proof my brother had hidden for years.

Facing Sabina with those documents was like watching a storm roll in. “This is nonsense,” she hissed, but I saw the doubt in her eyes.

Instead of demanding my share, I made a simple request: “Let me stay through harvest.”

Those months changed everything. Sabina started joining me in the fields. She learned to can vegetables, tend the orchard, even deliver a calf. One night, after we’d spent hours repairing the barn roof, she said quietly, “Dad loved this place, didn’t he?”

When the first frost came, she didn’t call the realtors. Instead, she brought me coffee and said, “Tell me how we prepare for winter.”

The farm is ours now—not just in paperwork, but in the way that matters. Every seed we plant feels like making peace with the past.

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