I smiled.
“I already live where I want.”
He said nothing.
I continued.
“My great-grandfather worked to own this land. My mother lived here believing it belonged to somebody else. And now, after all these years, it’s back in our family.”
I looked toward the trees.
“I’m not selling it.”
Several months later, my son-in-law built a wooden sign for the entrance to the gravel lane.
He carved it by hand.
When he finished, we stood together and admired it.
The sign read:
WHITSETT GROVE
Established 1879
Returned 2025
My daughter cried when she saw it.
So did I.
That autumn, the pecan trees produced a wonderful harvest.
I gathered nuts just as my mother had taught me when I was little.
Then I sold them at the farmers’ market in Columbia.
The money wasn’t enormous.
But it was mine.
Ganado de árboles que crecen en tierra que ahora pertenecían a nuestra familia.
