dam. A big cottonwood on the north bank. Bluegill and bullheads and a few largemouth bass that Grandpa stocked himself from a bucket.
He’d bait our hooks with nightcrawlers from the coffee can. He’d set us on the bank on overturned
five-gallon buckets. He’d sit between us on his own bucket with his seed cap pushed back, and he’d wait.
“This is for you girls,” he’d say. “Both of you. Someday.”
I believed him. Brittany believed him. We’d grown up believing him.
But it turned out the will left the eighty to Mom and Dad outright. Not to us. To them. I found out at the lawyer’s office in Creston in November, sitting in a plastic chair while a man in a gray suit read it
out loud.
To my daughter, Sheryl Kessler Morgan, and her husband, Roger Morgan, all my real estate.
