My son-in-law slid a sheet of notebook paper across the kitchen table. There was one number on it, circled twice.$800.“That’s rent, utilities, and your share of the groceries,” my daughter said. She had both hands wrapped around a coffee mug that had gone cold a long time ago. “And then four days a week with the kids. So you’d be earning your keep, Mom. It wouldn’t be charity.”Earning my keep.It was a Saturday, a little after lunch, the first week of October. The kitchen window was open a crack, and you could hear the dryer fans running down at the elevator, the way you can hear them all over Holdrege during harvest. A low, steady roar, like a river that never gets anywhere.
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