Page 22 of Fall is Brewing

“You’ve labeled the plates,” Dad says. “You’re timing yourself.”

“It’s called preparation.”

“It’s called spiraling,” he replies gently.

I pull the blindfold down to my neck and look at him. He’s leaning against the counter now, beer in hand, but his eyes aren’t amused. They’re worried. “You don’t have to win this thing to prove anything,” he says.

“It’s not about proving,” I argue.

Grandpa clears his throat softly. “Winning matters.”

Dad turns toward him. “It does. But not like this.”

“Like what?” I demand.

“Like it’s life or death,” Dad says. “Like if you lose, the orchard collapses and your name goes up in smoke.”

“That’s not what I think.”

“It’s what you’re acting like.”

Silence settles over the table, thicker than the scent of apples.

Grandpa leans forward, resting his forearms on the wood. “When I took over working here after I got married, I worked every day. Sunup to sundown. Your grandmother used to joke that she had to make an appointment to see me.”

Dad huffs softly. “You say that like it’s charming.”

“It was,” Grandpa replies. “Because she was there with me. Because we built this life together.”

Dad’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing more.

Grandpa studies him. “You think I regret it?”

“I think you were lucky,” Dad says. “Lucky that she loved it too and loved you enough to share your ambitions. Lucky that it didn’t cost you something you couldn’t get back.”

The room shifts and my stomach twists with the memory of the last time I saw my mother before she left. Left us. Left Dad. Left this town and this orchard, stating that farm life and motherhood ‘wasn’t for her.’

Patty reaches for Dad’s hand without looking at him. He squeezes it automatically. She’s been our rock. Always letting us mourn Mom when we need to and not feeling threatened by it when we do.

I look between them, something uneasy but warm stirring in my chest.

“I don’t want this to be your only story,” Dad says, turning back to me. “The orchard’s important. It’s part of you. But it’s not supposed to be all of you.”

Grandpa shakes his head slowly. “There’s nothing wrong with dedicating yourself to something worth dedicating yourself to.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting more either,” Dad counters.

I feel like I’m standing between two different versions of my future.

One where I pour everything into this place until it becomes my whole world.

One where I… don’t.

“Maybe I want it to be my whole world,” I say quietly.

Grandpa nods once, satisfied.

Dad’s expression softens. “Maybe you only think you do because it’s all you’ve known. All you’ve seen.”