When I woke, Nate had covered me with his jacket.
He was still working nearby, his headlamp turned low so he wouldn’t disturb me.
Weeks later, the electrical inspector approved Nate’s work.
When the power company finally connected the house, I stood in the empty kitchen and flipped a switch.
A single bare bulb illuminated the room.
I started crying.
After two exhausting years, that little light felt like a miracle.
Then an unexpected phone call changed everything.
It was Nate’s eighty-eight-year-old grandmother, Opal.
“Emily,” she said, “I saw your names in the newspaper.”
My heart sank.
“You did?”
“You bought the old Miller farmhouse.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was a long silence.
Then she asked:
“Is it the property north of town?”
“Yes.”
Her next words surprised me.
“Pick me up after church Sunday. And don’t tell Ronald.”
Ronald was her son.
My father-in-law.
I hesitated.
