mi

ffice. When I'm not working

ion of my son's name.

ndpa. You

he asked proudly. "I let him have

. "He takes

ke after me

I suppose. Ho

e farm is fine. It could be better

concern. "You didn't tell me

d to change a few th

other had died of ovarian cancer when I was five and my father had been killed in a car accident shortly after. T

I can help you wi

I don't know if y

t mean?" I ask

suppose you don't wear boots anymore. You're uptown. You're too clean. You're uppity, wearing your fancy suits and

utiny. "Grandpa, it's a

ng in a goddamn office all the

't like it, but I ne

rk the farm,"

armer," I re

sed on a farm. I let you go off to college, thi

he city," I told him.

e in an apartment. That poor boy doesn't eve

er-school program, and then

head. "That

dpa, he's a good kid. He's healthy and is doing fine. Let me cl

ile. "I've got to be

ave you bee

but you know I don't l

steak? We've got some of the best

steak than what I have on the farm. Fresh and fed

for a longer visit

ll see," he said, noddi

nails. I had idolized him before my parents died, and then after he took over the role of being dad, mom, and

sit this summer. I've got some vacatio

said in a noncommittal t

could convince you to stay longer,

Take care of yoursel

did it anyway. I had become more of a hugger since having Oliver. Hugs wer

some high standards to live up to. It all seemed to come so easy to him. He was strong and capable and suc

bled, feeling

, but good. I had thought when I graduated from NYU, he would have been proud of me. Instead, he'd seemed disappointed that I had chosen to stay in New York. He didn't seem to care th

ed. My eyes were opened to something new and different and exciting. Going back to the small town and the farm hadn

ded myself. That excu