Everything he’d learned through experience.
I’d planted those fields every spring for twenty-two years.
I knew every low spot.
Every change in soil.
Every section that dried slowly after heavy rain.
But that spring, I wasn’t there.
Theresa noticed me checking the weather reports.
One evening, she finally said, “Call Phil.”
I kept eating.
“About what?”
“Offer to help plant.”
“He has my number.”
“Wade.”
I looked up.
“He inherited the farm. If he wants me to plant it, he can ask.”
“That’s pride talking.”
“Some of it.”
“What about the rest?”
I put down my fork.
“I’ve worked those fields for twenty-two springs. I’m not going to beg my brother for a job on the land I thought I’d spend my life farming.”
Theresa sighed.
“He might not know how to ask.”
“Then he needs to learn.”
She didn’t answer.
She simply gave me another slice of pie.
That was Theresa’s way of telling me I was being stubborn without starting an argument.
—
By late April, the soil was warm enough to plant.
Neighboring farmers began working their fields.
Dad’s land remained untouched.
I drove past it twice a day in the fertilizer truck.
The corn stalks from the previous harvest stood in silent rows.
No tractor.
No planter.
No activity.
I kept waiting for Phil to call.
He didn’t.
On May ninth, two inches of rain fell.
Three days later, I drove past the farm and saw a sixteen-row planter moving across the center-pivot quarter.
Behind it was an unfamiliar tractor.
A pickup with Kansas license plates was parked nearby.
Phil had hired an outside crew.
I slowed down.
The soil was still too wet.
I could see the planter wheels pressing muddy trenches into the field.
The ground was smearing instead of crumbling.
Anyone who knew that land would have waited several more days.
I almost turned into the driveway.
My hand moved toward the indicator.
Then I remembered that Phil had hired strangers instead of calling me.
He’d chosen someone from Kansas over his own brother.
I lowered my hand.
And drove past.
I’m not proud of that decision.
But it’s the truth.
That evening, Theresa found me sitting in Dad’s feed truck after dark.
The driver’s door was open.
I hadn’t even turned on the cab light.
“They planted it too wet,” I told her.
She climbed onto the running board.
“Can it be fixed?”
“Some of it.”
“Then why aren’t you helping?”
I looked away.
“He didn’t ask.”
She put her arm around my shoulders.
We sat quietly beneath the yard light.
Finally, she whispered, “Your father would hate seeing you two like this.”
“He’s the one who caused it.”
“I know,” she said. “But I think he’d hate it anyway.”
By the middle of June, the consequences were obvious.
Corn should emerge in neat, even rows.
