Twenty-two springs planting corn.
Twenty-two winters fixing equipment.
Twenty-two years feeding cattle, hauling grain, and repairing fences.
He’d rarely praised me.
Even when we had a good harvest, he’d simply say the work had turned out all right.
When I worked through a blizzard to save newborn calves, he acted as though that was what any farmer should do.
I’d spent most of my adult life hoping he’d say he was proud of me.
And now those words were written on a sheet of yellow paper.
Hidden beneath the seat of an old truck.
A letter he’d been too uncomfortable to mail.
I bent forward and cried.
—
**PART 7: WHAT MY BROTHER HAD BEEN HIDING**
Theresa found me sitting on the running board.
She immediately knew something was wrong.
“Wade?”
I handed her the letter.
She read it slowly.
Then sat beside me.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Finally, she whispered, “He knew exactly what you would’ve done.”
I nodded.
“He could’ve told me.”
She gently folded the paper.
“I know.”
“Twenty-two years, Theresa. He never said he appreciated what I did.”
She rested her head against mine.
“He loved you. He just didn’t know how to say it.”
I stared at the letter.
Then I made a decision.
I climbed into the cab.
Placed Dad’s notebook beside me.
Set the letter on the dashboard near his gloves.
And started the truck.
Eleven miles later, I turned into the farm driveway.
Phil was standing outside the workshop.
He watched the old truck approach.
When I stopped, I leaned across the bench seat and opened the passenger door.
“Get in.”
Phil frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just get in.”
He climbed into the truck.
He had to move Dad’s old cap before sitting down.
He held it awkwardly in his hands.
I gave him the letter.
“Found this beneath the seat.”
He put on his glasses.
I looked out through the windshield while he read.
A sparrow was building a nest near the workshop.
The yard looked exactly as it had when Dad was alive.
I heard Phil reach the bottom of the page.
Then he started reading again.
Finally, he whispered:
**“Dad trusted me to do the right thing.”**
I nodded.
“He did.”
Phil removed his glasses.
His eyes filled.
Then he reached into his shirt pocket.
He pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
It looked as though he’d carried it for months.
“Wade, there’s something I need to show you.”
He handed it over.
It was dated March first.
Only days after the will had been read.
On the page, Phil had calculated the estimated sale value of the farm.
Below that, he’d subtracted the bank debt.
Then he’d drawn a line.
The remaining amount was divided equally.
One half labeled **Phil**.
The other labeled **Wade**.
I stared at him.
“You were planning to split the inheritance?”
He nodded.
“From the beginning.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Phil looked down.
“I thought you knew about the debt.”
I shook my head.
“I never saw Dad’s financial books.”
“I know that now.”
He hesitated.
