Chapter 2 - Cold Oatmeal and Quiet Resentment
By Monday morning, the farmhouse felt like an overcrowded train depot running on low fuel. The single full bathroom upstairs had never been engineered for six people getting ready simultaneously. Steam rolled out into the hallway, smelling of Hannah’s berry shampoo and Jeff’s cheap shaving cream.
I stood at the stove, flipping pancakes on the cast-iron griddle while the kettle screamed on the back burner. Brody sat at the edge of the kitchen island, picking at the fraying hem of his hoodie. He was twelve, old enough to understand the shame radiating off his father, old enough to feel like an intruder in a house where the walls were covered in framed photographs of Hannah’s track meets and Dale’s harvest records.
"You want syrup on those, Brody?" I asked, sliding a plate toward him.
"I’m good," he muttered, staring down. "Dad said we shouldn't eat too much of your food until he gets his first paycheck from the lumberyard."
"Your dad is being silly," I said, setting the jug of real maple syrup down firmly next to his fork. "In this house, nobody rations breakfast. Eat."
Jeff walked in, tucking his work shirt into his belt. The embarrassment hadn't left him; it had simply settled into a stiff, performative politeness. He moved around my kitchen on tiptoe, treating our coffee mugs like delicate china and apologizing every time his elbow brushed against a cabinet. "I’ll pay for half the propane, Tammy," he said for the third time in forty-eight hours, pouring black coffee into a chipped mug. "As soon as the county court finalizes the temporary child support orders, I'll have an exact budget."
"We'll settle expenses on the first of the month like civilized roommates," I replied. "Right now, your only job is showing up on time at the yard so you keep the shift."
Then the kitchen telephone on the wall let out a shrill ring.
My heart hitched. Nobody called the landline anymore except telemarketers and my mother. I wiped my hands on an apron and lifted the receiver.
"Tammy," Mom's voice came through sharp, stripped of any warmth. "Your father and I drove by the bank this morning to pull the deed paperwork. The county clerk said there's no record of a pending transfer. What time are we meeting at the notary?"
I gripped the plastic cord, feeling the cold coil bite into my knuckles. "We aren't going to the notary, Mom."
Silence stretched across the copper wire, heavy and venomous. "What did you say?"
"Jeff and the kids moved into the upstairs bedrooms on Saturday," I said, speaking clearly so Dale and Jeff could hear me across the island. "They have two warm rooms, full use of the kitchen, and Cole brought his goldfish. We solved the problem. Jeff has a home, and Dale and I keep ours."
"You did what?" Her voice spiked into an octave that made the receiver crackle. "You moved him into an attic like a boarder? Jeff is a grown man with a family, Tammy! He needs a home of his own! That farm belongs to this family, and you are being spiteful and selfish because you think you're better than your brother!"
"I paid the agreed price and paid twenty years of property taxes, Mom," I said, my voice hardening.
May you like
"You paid one dollar!" she hissed. "One dollar for sixty acres and a house! You stole that legacy, and now when your brother is broken and bleeding, you treat him like a charity case. We gave you that farm out of mercy, Tammy. Don't test me. Your father and I will be out there tonight."
The line went dead with a violent click.
