He studied the room.
“Then what are you going to do with it?”
I looked toward the bed.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Finally, I said, “I don’t know.”
Harlo nodded.
“Leave it for now.”
Then he picked up his toolbox.
“You’ll figure it out.”
I tried.
For the first couple of weeks, I came home from work, lit the wood stove, and ate dinner standing at the kitchen counter.
The counter was slightly too low for me.
I’d built it for Mom.
Every time I leaned forward to chop vegetables, I thought about her standing in the open house and reaching the cupboards without a stool.
I avoided the second bedroom.
Sometimes I walked past and glanced inside.
The quilt.
The lamp.
The empty closet.
Everything waiting for people who didn’t know it existed.
Then Mom texted.
“Propane’s due!!”
No hello.
No question about how I was doing.
Just the bill.
I was at work, checking a chairlift component in a freezing wind.
I took off one glove to read the message.
For a moment, I felt angry.
Not the hot kind of anger that makes you say things loudly.
The tired kind.
The kind that comes after years of being useful without feeling appreciated.
I typed four words.
“Just use the hair dryer.”
Then I put the phone away.
I regretted the message almost immediately.
It was petty.
I knew that.
But I also knew I wasn’t going to send money simply because Mom expected me to.
Later, the propane office contacted me to confirm the billing arrangement.
The account was in Dad’s name.
A delivery had been scheduled, but no payment method had been established.
The supplier couldn’t complete the delivery without payment under the new account terms.
I told the representative that Dad had a checkbook and could arrange payment directly.
Then I called Dad.
He didn’t answer.
So I sent him a message warning that a severe cold front was coming and that he needed to arrange the delivery promptly.
He replied later.
“Your mother’s handling it.”
I stared at those words.
For seven years, I’d handled it.
Now Mom was supposed to.
And Dad believed she would.
What I didn’t know was that she had called Caitlyn first.
She asked my sister whether she and Nolan could cover the propane delivery.
After all, the farmhouse was supposed to become theirs someday.
Caitlyn refused.
She said they had expenses of their own.
Then Mom asked whether my sister could at least help arrange a payment plan.
Caitlyn said it wasn’t their responsibility yet.
Mom never told Dad exactly how the conversation had gone.
The delivery was postponed.
The weather grew colder.
I sent another reminder.
Dad replied that the matter was being handled.
Then the temperature dropped.
And three days after my hair-dryer message, his truck appeared in my driveway.
By the time I helped Mom into my house, her hands were cold and her face was pale.
I took her coat.
Guided her toward the kitchen.
And put the kettle on.
Dad followed, carrying the old hair dryer.
He placed it on the counter like a man setting down something he’d carried too long.
“The boiler stopped,” he said.
I looked toward him.
“When?”
“Earlier this evening.”
“What happened?”
“The tank ran out. We called the emergency number. They need to refill it and check the system before restarting anything.”
I nodded.
“That’s right.”
Dad rubbed his hands.
“The house got cold fast. I was worried about the kitchen plumbing.”
He glanced toward the hair dryer.
“I was trying to keep one section of pipe from getting too cold while we arranged help.”
I looked toward him.
“You shouldn’t have waited for the tank to run empty.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I know.”
For a moment, I felt another wave of anger.
I’d warned them.
I’d given them the account information.
I’d told Dad the cold snap was coming.
But there they were.
My parents.
Freezing.
And I wasn’t going to turn their emergency into another family argument.
I poured hot coffee.
Dad drank his black.
Mom wanted enough milk that the coffee barely changed color.
Then I asked whether they’d contacted Caitlyn.
Dad stared into his cup.
“Yes.”
“And?”
He took a breath.
“Paisley’s not feeling well. Nolan has work early.”
I waited.
Then he said quietly, “They said it wasn’t a good night.”
Mom looked away.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
I looked toward the old hair dryer.
Then toward Dad.
“Funny,” I said softly.
He raised his eyes.
“The daughter inheriting the farmhouse doesn’t have room for you tonight.”
Dad didn’t answer.
I continued.
“And the son who inherited a hair dryer does.”
Mom set down her cup.
“Brett, please.”
I took a breath.
“You’re right. We can talk tomorrow.”
Then I stood.
“Come on. I’ll show you where you can sleep.”
I led them down the hallway.
Mom walked slowly, looking around the house.
At first, she didn’t seem to notice anything unusual.
Then she stopped in the kitchen.
Her hand moved toward the cabinet above the counter.
She opened it without rising onto her toes.
For a moment, she stared.
Then opened another.
And another.
“These are low,” she whispered.
I nodded.
“An inch and a half.”
She looked toward me.
“Why?”
I didn’t answer yet.
Dad had noticed the wood stove.
He stood beside the brown corduroy recliner.
Touched the left arm.
Then looked toward me.
“This looks like my chair.”
I smiled faintly.
“Same model.”
He studied it.
Then sat down carefully.