We did not tell our children. We did not tell the neighbors. We simply let the bank manager handle it, just as Martha had done all those years ago.

Yesterday, our daughter-in-law, Clara, came over to our farmhouse. She is twenty-four, stubborn, and currently trying to manage three young children while our son, Harold Jr., is out working the fields.

She looked tired, her hair in a messy bun, and she let out a soft, heavy sigh as she looked at her dirty dishes.

I did not say a word about the mess. I did not sigh back.

Instead, I walked over, took her small, chapped hands in mine, and pulled her toward the stove where a fresh pot of coffee was brewing. “Sit down, Clara,” I said, pouring her a cup in my favorite mug. “Let’s just talk for a while.”

She looked surprised, her shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. As we sat together at the old laminate table, the winter wind howling outside, I felt the kitchen grow a little warmer.