Moving day was difficult. Abby packed her bedroom carefully, choosing which toys, books, and photographs she wanted to take first. She asked whether we would still be able to see her friends and whether she could visit the old farmhouse. I told her that nothing about her father’s memory would disappear just because we were moving. We loaded our furniture into a rented truck, and I made sure to take Daniel’s photographs, his old work jacket, and the wooden sign he had made for our porch. When Randy saw the truck, he walked over and asked whether I had found somewhere in town. I looked toward the eighty acres across the road and told him we had bought a property of our own. His expression changed immediately. He asked whether I was serious. I simply said yes.

The property needed plenty of work. The farmhouse had an aging roof, the kitchen required repairs, and the machine shed was filled with old equipment left behind by the previous owner. But I wasn’t frightened by the work. Daniel had taught me more about farm life than I had ever expected to learn. I hired local contractors for the repairs I couldn’t handle and began organizing the land so it could eventually become productive. A neighbor named Harold offered to help me inspect the fencing and explained which fields would be best for planting. Abby started helping me paint her new bedroom, choosing a soft yellow color because it reminded her of the kitchen in our old home. Little by little, the property began to feel less like an empty purchase and more like a future. Across the road, Randy and Scott continued running the family operation, but I no longer felt that my life depended on their decisions.