Daddy’s farm rent now goes directly into his account, covering his nursing-home bill with money left over. The attorney returned everything I had paid during those four years, and Wes and I placed it straight into our retirement savings. Ronnie never bought the farm. Instead, he signed a ten-year lease on all 240 acres, saying he never would have purchased Daddy’s land without shaking his hand first. What nearly disappeared through deception is now protected exactly the way Daddy wants it.

Every first Sunday of the month, I place Daddy’s brown felt hat on his head and drive him back to the farm. Ronnie always meets us beside the fence, where they talk about beans, rainfall, cattle prices, and whatever else farmers can discuss for hours. Daddy still rests his hand on the old corner post he set himself in 1958. Darla visits him too. Their relationship didn’t magically repair itself, but she keeps showing up. She brings the latest rent statement and reads every number aloud so Daddy knows exactly where his money went. Last time she finished, Daddy looked at her quietly and said he was proud of her for coming. Darla cried. Daddy simply adjusted his hat, and this time, nobody looked away.