The facility called the next morning. They said the offer for the room would expire on Tuesday and they could not hold it past that. I thanked them and hung up before I started crying.

I sat down with Daddy at lunch and tried to explain the best I could. The words came out all wrong and I knew it.

“The place in Richfield has a room ready for you,” I said. “It would be safe and somebody would be there all the time to help.”

He put his fork down slow and looked at me for a long minute.

“This land is all I have left of your mother,” he said.

I did not know what to say after that. I just sat there and looked at the canning jars on the shelf. Mama’s handwriting was on every single one, neat and careful like always. Summer tomatoes, 1987. Green beans, 1989. I could almost hear her voice reading them out loud.

Tom called again that night. He said I was being selfish by waiting.

“Linda does not have to deal with it every day like you do,” Tom said. “You know this is the only way we can keep him safe.”

Linda called too and told me not to rush into anything. She said Daddy might have more good days left if we gave him time.

The next week Daddy got even quieter. He stopped talking about the land or the garden or anything else. He just sat in his chair and looked out the window toward the field. I hired a night aide for a few evenings but it cost too much and the woman said she could not keep up with him anyway.

One more night I heard the door again. I went out and found him near the old garden, touching one of the tomato cages with his hand. He did not say anything when I walked up beside him. We just stood there together for a minute.

“Mama would have known what to do,” I said, though I knew he probably could not hear me.

He turned and we walked back to the house without another word between us.

The day before the offer expired I called the facility again. They said they could hold the room one more day but that was the best they could do. I thanked them and told them I would let them know.

I sat at the table that night with the papers spread out in front of me. The pen was right there next to my coffee cup. The jars with Mama’s handwriting were on the shelf where they had always been. I could read the labels from where I sat.