I had to leave the farmhouse where I had lived for two years after my wife’s death. The property belonged to the family I had worked for, and their son was returning to farm the land with his own growing family. I understood their situation and held no resentment. But I still needed somewhere to live, and I wasn’t ready to spend most of my monthly income just to sleep in my son’s basement.

At the feed store, I noticed a rental advertisement that had been hanging beside the register for weeks. The little house sat behind the grain elevator, with white siding, two rooms, a bathroom, and a porch swing. The rent was $475 a month, plus electricity. When Mr. Keller handed me the keys, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: the quiet pride of having a place that was mine by choice.

I didn’t tell Daniel immediately. Six days later, Melissa spotted my Buick outside the little house and told him where I was living. That evening, he called and demanded to know why I would rather pay a stranger than help my own family. I told him I would rather be his father than his renter. He hung up before I could say anything else.