Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“For the freezing operation. I think it’s a good idea.”
Bray and I exchange a glance. Has Dad got some kind of brain issue? Like, is he suffering from dementia? I half want to start looking up symptoms, but need to brace myself for the next bomb Dad is going to drop.
“So you need the money you’d normally pay us in salaries to make the loan payments?” I ask.
My dad shakes his head. “No. I’ve looked into it. I can get most of the equipment on lease. But I’ll need some modifications to the barn.”
“So why are we fired?” Bray asks. “We’ve been the ones who were pushing the freezing operation, and now that you’re going ahead with it, you’re going to fire us? What the fuck, Dad? And we’re going to be homeless. Where are we supposed to live?”
Dad sighs and glances down into his lap. “I’ve done a terrible job at being a father to the two of you.”
“No you haven’t.” I reach for Dad’s arm and he covers it with his hand, patting me. “You’re a terrific dad.”
“Most of the time,” Bray says. “When you’re not firing us. Do you have our replacements lined up or what? I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do. Get a bar job at Grizzly’s? I don’t think they need anyone. And anyway, I can’t think of anything worse than being stuck inside pouring people drinks. I love being outside. I love working with the people we have, seeing all the fruit that we’ve grown piled into boxes, knowing that it’s going to feed people—provide people with the nutrition they need to survive. I love my job.”
Dad huffs out a laugh. “Son, I never knew you thought so deeply about it.”
“I never had to until I was fired.”
Dad shakes his head. “I’ve relied on the two of you far too heavily. Maybe that was okay in the beginning, after your mom died, but I should have let you both go a long time ago.” He pulls in a breath. “I’ve prioritized the needs of the farm over the needs of my children.” His voice wobbles as he finishes his sentence and I scoot closer to him.
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
“Neither of you went to college. You’ve never left this town. You’ve never experienced anything other than this farm. I want you both to experience the world. See what’s out there. If then you want to come back to Wilde’s Farm, that’s another thing.”
“Are you serious?” Bray asks. “I never wanted to go to college. I always loved the farm. It’s where I’ve wanted to work since I’ve been five years old.”
“You’ve never known anything else,” Dad replies.
“Maybe I don’t need to. I knew I didn’t want to fight in the Army, even though I’d never done it. I know I don’t ever want to own a fucking cat, even though I never have. I love this farm. I love my job and… yeah, well, maybe moving out might be a good idea. It might be nice to have a place of my own.”
Bray gets up from his chair and comes to sit on the cushion the other side of Dad. He slings an arm around his shoulders. “But I wouldn’t want to leave you.”
“That’s what kids are supposed to do,” Dad says. “They leave the nest. And if they don’t, then the parents haven’t been doing their jobs properly. After Mom died, I wanted to keep you close. I wanted to protect you from everything. But now? Now I just want you to be happy.”
“We are happy, right?” Bray asks, looking at me.
“Even if you don’t want to, Iris needs to spread her wings,” Dad says.
Tears gather in my eyes. Not because I’ve just been fired by my dad, but because he’s saying things I haven’t even allowed myself to think about.
“Iris never wanted to go to college, either.”
I meet my dad’s gaze. We both know that’s not true.
“No,” Dad says. “Iris couldn’t go to ballet school because she dropped out of high school to make sure this family didn’t go under.”
I exhale. The time after Mom died is never something we discuss. It was so dark and felt so hopeless that we were all on autopilot. And the word ballet has never been uttered in this house since Mom died, either. It feels like we’ve been keeping all this in and holding it so tightly, that it’s a relief to let go. Finally.
“Knowing that you’ve done your high school diploma without telling me…” My dad shakes his head. “I realized how blind and selfish I’ve been. Maybe that was forgivable just after your mom died. But I should have fired you a long time ago.”
I nudge my dad. “You can’t fire us, Dad. We’re going to help you transform this business into a national frozen fruit brand.”