Mom set an old coffee can on the counter and pried off the lid. Inside lay a thick roll of bills, bound with a rubber band, and a stack of crumpled egg cartons labeled in her handwriting. “Ro,” she said, her voice steady though her hands shook, “I have been saving this for four years. I did not know about the account until Monday, when he sold the cows.” Gene stood behind her, hat pressed to his chest, his eyes on the floor.

She counted out the bills slowly, and the three farmers watched without a word. Walter took off his cap again. “Eight thousand, four hundred dollars,” Mom said, sliding the roll across the counter. “Every cent, with interest, and I want a receipt.” I stared at her. Then Gene’s voice cracked behind her. “Marge, you do not have to do this,” he whispered, and for the first time in my life, I saw him cry.