Page 31 of Till The Cows Come Home

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sage

A fter the haze of tears cleared, I closed my eyes, attempting to resurrect the farm's structure in my brain, but my memories were already muddled. I couldn’t recall the pitch of the roof quite right and although I knew the exterior had been red, different hues floated around in my mind, my brain already unable to cling to the correct shade.

I knew my parents had tons of photos and my desperation to see the farm for what it once was instead of what we’d let it become propelled me inside. When I walked back through the doors, my parents rose from the couch, swarming me with worry.

“Where did you go, sweetie?” my mother fussed.

“I wanted to say goodbye,” I murmured.

“Oh sweetheart, you look like hell. Why don’t you go lay down?”

I knew she was right. I could feel the fatigue, and before I made my way in, I’d flipped down the visor, peering into bloodshot eyes.

The old Sage would have waited, allowing the redness to fade, but I couldn’t muster the effort.

There was no point in hiding my feelings when they were painted on my face, regardless.

I nodded though, trudging past them until I reached the guest bed and as soon as I reached it, I climbed in, pulling the covers over my head.

When I woke up, I could see the sun just beginning to peek through the windows and even though I’d gotten almost sixteen hours of sleep, I still felt exhausted. I cracked open the door, tiptoeing towards the kitchen, but when I arrived, my father was already seated at the table.

“Mornin’,” I mumbled.

My plan was to grab coffee and run, which was soon foiled when my father spoke.

“Gale, put the kettle on for us, would you?”

Surprise widened my mother’s eyes at my father’s demand, but she nodded in agreement.

It wasn’t often that my father handled the emotions in the house and if he was stepping in, that meant that I was about to get tough love.

Normally he let my mother speak for him, not because he didn’t care, but because he and my mother’s values perfectly paralleled each other.

He trusted her to lead, interfering only when I was being particularly hard-headed, and it always began with a cup of tea.

He ushered me over to the dining room table, pulling out my chair as he gestured for me to sit.

“I’m still really tired, dad,” I said, hoping the despair settling in the darkness under my eyes was enough to postpone the conversation.

“Sit down, Sage.”

His stern tone triggered the childhood obedience in me and I sat knowing he wasn’t leaving another option.

“What’re you doing?” he sighed, a sliver of disappointment lacing his tone.

“Grieving. ”

“And everyone else?” he questioned.

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t be so naive as to think that you’re the only one who lost something, can you?”

My heart ached at his comment, and I opted to take my time before responding, hoping that whatever I finally conjured didn’t disappoint him further.

And as I looked into the eyes of the man I’d idolized my entire life, the ache in my chest intensified.

His features came into focus, hair ruffled with a purple hue under his eyes that matched my own, and I suddenly became acutely aware of everyone else.

The Baker in Baker Farm had suffered the most tragic loss of them all.

One of my biggest downfalls was feeling my own feelings so deeply that I became oblivious to others’ and it was clear this was another situation in which I foolishly allowed myself to be blinded from not only Miles’ feelings but also my father’s.

He lost the farm when he sold it three years ago, but it still stood. The herd he handpicked still existed and if he showed up to the market, he could still reap the benefit of a lifetime of labors.

That wasn’t the case any longer.

I insisted on grieving so loudly that everyone around me was forced to feel what I lost and how badly it hurt, but I hadn’t stopped for even a moment to really think. Instead, I chose to be naive to the fact that my father sat in front of me with the biggest grief of them all.

“You lost them too.”

“I lost them too,” he repeated, giving my hand a squeeze.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the wails of the ones who couldn’t escape.

I’d woken in a sweat each time the exhaustion took over, and each time I’d been relieved for mere seconds before realizing that the nightmare was reality.

I felt this weight from the twenty-eight years I lived on the farm, but I wasn't the one who stood in the lot marveling at its potential before Baker Farm even existed. I didn’t pick out the first few heifers, I didn’t scour over the finances that eventually became our fault, and I definitely wasn’t the one who handed over the keys when the sale went through.

If anyone’s grief deserved to be loud, it'd be my father’s and instead he sat here quietly, eternally putting my needs before his own.

“I’m sorry, dad,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart, but we cannot continue on this way.”

“How did you move on?” I questioned, desperate to escape the pain.

“Grieving something that still existed was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I did it for you and your mother.

The people you love will always be more important, and the moment you risk losing them, it’s time to reconsider.

Farming was my passion, but my family was the fuel.

And yes, before you interject, you can fuel your own passion, but is that what you want?

Because if it is, we’ll support you. But I watched your face as you walked away from Miles.

I saw you prepare yourself to grieve and at that moment, it wasn’t for the cows.

The world of agriculture was my life, and still is my passion, but when you’re in the business of family farming, you have to take care of your family or you’re just left with farming. Find the balance, Sage.”

I nodded, thankful when my mother conveniently appeared with the kettle.

She had been lurking, and chuckled when she poured the now lukewarm water into our mugs.

I sipped gratefully nonetheless, looking over my tea to sneak a peek at my parents sitting side by side.

My mother’s arm looped through my father’s and she sat with her head resting perfectly on his bicep, almost as she’d worn a spot there over the years.

My parents never shielded me from their affection, something I used to groan about as a teenager, but I finally understood it.

I understood what it felt like to crave the closeness of another, to have someone be your rock when times were unsteady.

“I think I love him,” I said to myself, realizing after a moment that I’d said my thoughts aloud, and when I looked up, both my parents were gawking with wide eyes.

“We know,” my mother said, breaking the awkward silence.

“Then why do you look so surprised?”

“Quite honestly, sweetheart, we never thought you’d admit it.” My father chuckled.

“Dad!”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, a smirk plastered across his face.

“What do I do now?”

“I’d start with an apology,” my father suggested. “He may not accept it, but he deserves it. You both experienced a trauma, and no matter the outcome, you need to clear your conscience on how you handled it.”

I stood, rounding the table to where I sat before planting a kiss atop both of their heads.

“I love you guys. I’m so sorry for everything. I’ll fix it, I promise.”

“One thing at a time,” my mom chastised, “But we love you too, faults included.”

I hovered nervously until my mother eventually swatted me away.

“Go! Win back that sweet man, because I’m not sure another will put up with you.”

After excusing myself, I disappeared into the guest room, and as I sat on the edge of the bed, I stared down at my phone, looking into the green eyes that stared back at me.

My chest filled then deflated, and as the last of my breath left my body, I dialed.