I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be running a farm. But when Grandpa passed and left everything to my mom—who had zero interest—I stepped in. I’d always loved the land, the smell of diesel, the long drives under the sun.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt real. So I moved back, dusted off the tractor, and got to work. Most of the crew accepted me, some even seemed relieved to have fresh energy around.
Except one—Donelson. He’d been here since forever. Thought of himself as the “real” boss just because he was older and louder.
I tried being respectful, I really did. But anytime I made a decision, he’d undercut it. He’d walk off during planting, “forget” to order supplies, tell the others I didn’t know what I was doing.
I let it go until the day I found half the irrigation lines tampered with. He blamed the weather.
