I grew up believing the farm would always be my safe place. I never imagined I’d have to fight to stay there the very week we laid my grandfather to rest.
Grandpa raised me. When my parents died in a car crash on a rainy October night, I was only twelve. I remember sitting on a hospital bench with a social worker repeating words like “placement” and “temporary housing.” Then I heard Grandpa’s voice cut through the hallway:
“He’s coming home with me.”
That was it. His steady hand on my shoulder, the smell of hay and peppermint gum—my world shifted. My parents were gone, but Grandpa and the farm became everything.
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