Page 31 of Mud & Moxie
For the life I want: boots by the door that aren’t all my size. Laughter from the kitchen and the kind of tired that’s earned. Maybe one day small hands slapping dough and, if I'm so lucky, kids who know where their food comes from because they’ve watched the sun draw it out of the ground.
For myself: I’ll speak up when it’s time, even if my voice comes out wrong the first try. I’ll choose together over winning. I’ll stop hiding behind chores when what’s required is courage.
If you’ve got thoughts, I’ll take them. If you don’t, I’ll make do with the ones you already gave me: fix what you can, forgive what you can’t, and if love shows up in work boots, make sure the floor is swept.
—D
I fold the paper and slip it into the middle of Ray’s old ledger between the pages where he kept planting notes and small lectures to himself.Remember the north field holds water. Don’t put pride where drainage should go.I slide the ledger on the shelf where I can see it and where I won’t reach for it at the wrong time and decide to be righteous when I need to be careful.
I make coffee. It’s too strong. I leave it that way. I lay two mugs on the table because hope is a ritual, too. I writeTalk to meon a sticky note and then ball it up and throw it away because begging isn’t the same thing as being brave, and because if she comes back, we’ll both need a little dignity to hold onto.
The rain lightens to a steady hush. It’s still early enough that the birds haven’t voted on a soundtrack. I step onto the porch and flip the switch for the light because I want something to be bright even if the sun isn’t up to the job yet. The bulb hums alive.
I don’t sleep. I put the bread dough on its first rise even though I’m not sure I’ll have a person to eat it with. I straighten chairs that don’t need it. I pace the rectangle right in front of the sink until there’s a path in the mat.
Once, I take the ledger back down and touch the page with my name. I don’t unfold the letter. I don’t need to read the words to know they’re mine.
When tires crunch on gravel, the house inhales. I set the coffee where a hand can find it. I stand on the kitchen side of the doorway like a man who knows doorways get to decide if they’re thresholds or exits.
The porch light throws a square of gold onto the floorboards. The screen door creaks because I never got around to oiling it. Boots on the steps. A shadow on the glass. My own heart doing work it hasn’t had to do in years.
I look up.
The knob turns.
***
14
Breaking Point
MADISON
Gravel crunches under my boots as I cross the yard, and the farmhouse looms like a dare. I told myself I was done, but here I am again because the WILL and Ray’s name won’t let me ghost this place. Not yet.
As I turn the door knob, Dylan is leaning against the kitchen sink, damp hair pushed back, hands braced on the counter like he’s holding himself up. His gaze flicks to my suitcase, then finally to me. The quiet between us is heavier than the rain.
“We need to talk,” I say, slipping past him. My palms are cold; my throat tastes like old pennies.
Matthew follows, a steady force at my back.
We land around the kitchen table because that’s where all the wars in this house get fought. The folder with Ray’s WILL sits between us, tabs like teeth. I open it and lay the pages out, because facts are safer than feelings and ink doesn’t flinch when you raise your voice.
***
“Clause Three,” I read, even though my voice shakes. “Co-management for six consecutive months. Major decisions require both signatures.” I lift my eyes to Dylan. “That means you don’t get to make me the mascot while you run the plays.”
He leans back, jaw hard. “And it means you don’t get to rebrand a working farm into a photo op because it looks good on a feed.”
“Say ‘feed’ like it’s a dirty word one more time,” I snap, heat climbing my neck. “Ray understood that story sells product. He wrote it in the margin—‘let her think in growth curves.’ You just refuse to read it.”
Color touches Dylan’s cheekbones. “I read what keeps calves fed and tractors running.”
“Both things can be true,” Matthew cuts in, palms flat on the table. His gaze moves between us, sharp and exhausted. “Roof, fences, well. Sponsors, pre-sold weekends, cash flow. Stop pretending this is one-sided.”
But the old wound is open now, and I can’t leave it alone. “You’ve never respected my work,” I say softly, the words heavier than a shout. “In high school, it was ‘superficial.’ Later, ‘not real.’ I built something from nothing, Dylan. Six figures. A team. A brand. Yet, you let people decide I’m a fraud because silence costs you less than defending me.”
His mouth presses into a thin line, a muscle jumping in his jaw. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll apologize. He doesn’t.
