I sank deeper into my chair, a scowl on my face. I didn’t need any reminders about competition or market saturation or debt or mortgages or anything else on the list of Reasons Why Farmers Have the Highest Suicide Rate of Any Profession.
Pete put a hand on his chest. “Listen. I’m a chef, not a businessman, Jack. You’re an ex-Army Sergeant with farming in your blood and a commitment to doing it responsibly. But if we want to keep this place going, we’ve got to start thinking of it as a business too.” His voice softened. “I know it was always a dream of yours and Steph’s. But it’s more than a dream now, Jack. It’s reality. For all of us. And if you want to keep it, we have to invest in it.”
“Look, we know you,” Brad said. “We are well aware that you prefer to keep to yourself and do things on your own, your way. And we’ve let you make every major decision so far, supported your vision even though we knew how expensive it was going to be. Fuck, I was ready to sell this entire place when that soybean guy expressed interest. I never wanted to be a farmer.”
“Me neither,” said Pete. “I saw the ups and downs Mom and Dad dealt with year after year and wanted something more stable for my family. But you had a vision, a good one. It was enough to convince me to move back and help out. And we have history here. We want this place to thrive. That won’t happen unless people know about it.”
From the monitor on the counter came the sound of Cooper crying, and Pete sighed. “Dammit.” He started to get up, but I stood faster.
“It’s my fault. Let me.” Grateful for a break from the discussion, I switched off the monitor on the kitchen counter and headed up to Cooper’s bedroom. My bad mood lifted as soon as I saw him, and I scooped him up from his crib. “Hey, buddy.”
He continued to cry as I reached into the crib for the soft little blanket I’d given to him when he was born. It was about six inches square, pale blue, and it had a bunny head on one corner. “Bunny” was one of the only words Cooper said, and he was rarely without it in his little grasp.
I spread Bunny over my shoulder and cuddled Cooper close, and he rested his cheek on the blanket, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and quieted down. Lowering myself into the rocker in his room, I held his warm little body against mine, rubbed his back, and hummed softly. He was a little restless at first, but after a few minutes, I felt his body relax as his breathing became slower and deeper. I kissed his soft brown curls and inhaled the sweet scent of baby shampoo, torn between feeling lucky to be an uncle and heartbroken I’d never be a father.
I’d been close to my own, and his death had been tough.
It had happened suddenly, not even six months after I’d left the Army. I’d been a fucking mess at the time, still struggling to process the things I’d seen and done after deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. Still trying to fit in again at home when all I wanted to do was isolate myself. Still feeling so on edge that every time I saw so much as a plastic bag in the road, I panicked. I was drinking too much, lost my temper too easily, battled nightmares and constant anxiety. Then in the middle of that, my father had a heart attack.
I’d felt powerless. And I’d wanted to give up.
It was Steph who pulled me back from the edge. God knows why, since I was an emotional fuck-up, and I’d never treated her right when we were young. She’d always been there for me, though, claimed she’d loved me since she was six years old and wasn’t about to stop now just because I was going through something. “I’m not letting you wreck yourself, Jack Valentini,” she’d said in her toughest voice, all five foot two inches of her. “You promised me you’d come back, and you did. I promised you I’d be here, and I am.” Her voice had softened. “Stay with me.”
With her support, I saw a doctor about my sleeping problems, a therapist for my PTSD, and stopped abusing alcohol. I thought more about what I was putting in my body and read up on the benefits of organic foods—both eating them and growing them. I remembered my father’s beliefs about responsible farming, and researched modern approaches to small-scale, sustainable agriculture. It gave me a purpose. It felt like a way to honor my dad, and I felt a connection to nature that I didn’t feel with people.
It took a while, but I got better. Not cured, but better. And Steph was there for me the whole way.
We got married the following year and worked our asses off on the farm, with a plan in place to buy out my brothers within five years.
Less than two years later, she was gone.