{"id":52795,"date":"2026-10-17T14:21:51","date_gmt":"2026-10-17T07:21:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/?p=52795"},"modified":"2026-10-17T14:21:51","modified_gmt":"2026-10-17T07:21:51","slug":"i-worked-on-dads-farm-for-22-years-but-he-left-all-400-acres-to-my-brother","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/?p=52795","title":{"rendered":"I Worked on Dad\u2019s Farm for 22 Years\u2014But He Left All 400 Acres to My Brother."},"content":{"rendered":"

AFTER WORKING ON MY FATHER\u2019S FARM FOR 22 YEARS, I WATCHED MY BROTHER INHERIT ALL 400 ACRES. I RECEIVED ONE OLD FEED TRUCK.<\/strong><\/h1>\n

My older brother, Phil, had spent thirty years selling insurance in Omaha. He barely knew how to operate a tractor.<\/p>\n

I had worked beside Dad nearly every day of my adult life.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

Yet when the attorney read the will, Phil received the farmhouse, fields, pasture, machinery, and irrigation equipment.<\/p>\n

I received a rusty 1994 International feed truck.<\/p>\n

My wife begged me to challenge the will.<\/p>\n

I refused.<\/p>\n

**\u201cDad signed it. He\u2019s gone now, and I\u2019m not taking him to court when he can\u2019t explain himself.\u201d**<\/p>\n

So I brought the truck home, found another job, and tried to accept what had happened.<\/p>\n

Four months later, while searching beneath the truck\u2019s passenger seat, I discovered a sealed envelope addressed to me.<\/p>\n

Inside was a letter Dad had written shortly before his death.<\/p>\n

**The farm carried $388,000 in debt. Dad had deliberately left it to Phil because he believed I would sacrifice my entire future trying to save it.**<\/p>\n

But the final lines of that letter broke me.<\/p>\n

*\u201cYou were the best help a man ever had. I should have told you while I still had the chance.\u201d*<\/p>\n

And when I showed the letter to my brother, he pulled another folded document from his pocket.<\/p>\n

**What he\u2019d secretly planned to do with the inheritance changed everything between us.**<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

The attorney stopped reading.<\/p>\n

I waited for him to continue.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

My name is Wade Kucera. I was fifty-one when my father died, and for twenty-two years, I\u2019d worked alongside him on our family\u2019s Nebraska farm.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d planted corn in the spring, repaired machinery in winter, moved cattle through blizzards, and spent more mornings behind a tractor wheel than I could count.<\/p>\n

My older brother, Phil, had chosen a different life.<\/p>\n

He was fifty-six and sold insurance in Omaha.<\/p>\n

He hadn\u2019t farmed seriously since he was a young man.<\/p>\n

But on that cold Tuesday in late February, inside a lawyer\u2019s office above a hardware store in St. Paul, Nebraska, Phil inherited virtually everything.<\/p>\n

Attorney Don Jensen had just read the portion of Dad\u2019s will concerning my brother.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo my son Phil, the home farm, including the home quarter, east eighty, creek pasture, buildings, irrigation equipment, and machinery.\u201d<\/p>\n

Four hundred acres.<\/p>\n

The house where we\u2019d grown up.<\/p>\n

The shop where I\u2019d repaired tractors for decades.<\/p>\n

The center-pivot irrigation system.<\/p>\n

And the pastures where I\u2019d raised my cattle.<\/p>\n

Then Don read my inheritance.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo my son Wade, the 1994 International feed truck, including the mixer box and title.\u201d<\/p>\n

That was all.<\/p>\n

One old truck.<\/p>\n

I stared at the table.<\/p>\n

Surely there was another paragraph.<\/p>\n

Perhaps Dad had left me a portion of the land separately.<\/strong><\/h1>\n

Maybe I\u2019d misunderstood.<\/p>\n

But Don folded the document.<\/p>\n

He looked uncomfortable.<\/p>\n

\u201cWade, I want you to understand something. Your father came here in November. He was mentally sound, and he knew what he was signing.\u201d<\/p>\n

I nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cI believe you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI asked him whether he wanted to explain why he\u2019d divided things this way.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did he say?\u201d<\/p>\n

Don hesitated.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe said, \u2018Write it exactly the way I told you.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

I almost smiled.<\/p>\n

That sounded like Dad.<\/p>\n

Albert Kucera wasn\u2019t a man who enjoyed explaining himself.<\/p>\n

Once he\u2019d made a decision, he expected everyone else to accept it.<\/p>\n

My wife, Theresa, sat beside me.<\/p>\n

Her hand rested firmly on my knee beneath the table.<\/p>\n

I knew she was angry.<\/p>\n

But she didn\u2019t interrupt.<\/p>\n

I stood, thanked Don, and shook his hand.<\/p>\n

Then I walked downstairs.<\/p>\n

Outside, a bitter north wind swept across the street.<\/p>\n

Theresa followed me to our pickup.<\/p>\n

\u201cWade, you need another attorney.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSomeone independent. Someone who can review that will.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, Theresa.\u201d<\/p>\n

She stared at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou spent twenty-two years working that land.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know how long I was there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen how can you just accept this?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked toward the gray Nebraska sky.<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause that\u2019s Dad\u2019s signature.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s been dead three weeks. He can\u2019t sit across a table and tell me what he meant. I\u2019m not going to spend the next few years fighting a man who can\u2019t answer me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Theresa looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n

Then she silently pulled my coat collar higher against the wind.<\/p>\n

That was her way of telling me she disagreed but still loved me.<\/p>\n

A moment later, Phil appeared outside.<\/p>\n

He approached slowly, holding his reading glasses.<\/p>\n

\u201cWade?\u201d<\/p>\n

I turned.<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t ask Dad for the farm,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI had no idea he\u2019d done this until Don called.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI believe you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil looked toward the pavement.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t understand why he\u2019d leave everything this way.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNeither can I.\u201d<\/p>\n

He seemed about to say something else.<\/p>\n

But he stopped.<\/p>\n

Then he walked toward his car.<\/p>\n

For months afterward, I remembered that moment.<\/p>\n

Two brothers standing outside a lawyer\u2019s office, both confused, both hurt, and neither willing to say what he was really thinking.<\/p>\n

**If either of us had spoken one more honest sentence that afternoon, we might have avoided four months of misery.**<\/p>\n

But we\u2019d been raised by Albert Kucera.<\/p>\n

And in our family, important things were rarely said aloud.<\/p>\n

I drove to the farm that afternoon to collect my inheritance.<\/p>\n

The feed truck sat in the north section of the machine shed.<\/p>\n

Exactly where Dad had parked it after feeding the calves on February second.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d died the following evening.<\/p>\n

I found him the next morning, sitting in his recliner while the television continued showing cattle market reports.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d gone quietly.<\/p>\n

And his old truck remained where he\u2019d left it.<\/p>\n

It was a 1994 International, once white but weathered nearly gray after decades of Nebraska winters.<\/p>\n

The old diesel engine had carried feed through snow, mud, and summer heat.<\/p>\n

There was a dent in the discharge chute from an accident Dad had never stopped complaining about.<\/p>\n

I climbed into the cab.<\/p>\n

Then I saw his gloves.<\/p>\n

They were lying on the dashboard.<\/p>\n

Two old yellow leather work gloves, darkened by grease and age.<\/p>\n

The fingers had curled into the shape of his hands.<\/p>\n

I sat behind the steering wheel, staring at them.<\/p>\n

A faded seed-company cap lay on the passenger seat.<\/p>\n

Fencing pliers rested on the floor.<\/p>\n

The cab smelled of diesel fuel, ground corn, and peppermint candies.<\/p>\n

Dad always carried peppermints, supposedly because he liked them.<\/p>\n

We all knew they helped disguise the tobacco he kept chewing after his doctor told him to stop.<\/p>\n

I touched the steering wheel.<\/p>\n

For a moment, I could almost hear him telling me to stop wasting daylight.<\/strong><\/h1>\n

The windshield began to fog.<\/p>\n

I hadn\u2019t realized I was crying.<\/p>\n

Eventually, I started the engine.<\/p>\n

It caught almost immediately.<\/p>\n

I unplugged the block heater, carefully coiled the cord the way Dad always had, and drove the truck eleven miles to my place near Elba.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t move the gloves.<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

Theresa came outside when I parked beside our barn.<\/p>\n

She looked at the truck.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell,\u201d she said gently, \u201cat least it\u2019s paid for.\u201d<\/p>\n

I tried to laugh.<\/p>\n

\u201cProbably the only thing on that farm that is.\u201d<\/p>\n

I meant it as a joke.<\/p>\n

I had no idea I\u2019d repeated almost exactly what Dad had written in a letter I\u2019d discover months later.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

The following morning, reality caught up with me.<\/p>\n

I owned forty cows.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d started the herd years earlier with six bred heifers Dad sold me at cost.<\/p>\n

For more than two decades, those animals had grazed his creek pasture during summer and fed on his cornstalks through winter.<\/p>\n

That had always been our arrangement.<\/p>\n

I worked the farm.<\/p>\n

Dad paid me wages.<\/p>\n

And I used his pasture for my cattle.<\/p>\n

But now the land belonged to Phil.<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t assume the arrangement would continue.<\/p>\n

So I hooked up my livestock trailer and began moving the animals to my property.<\/p>\n

Eight cows at a time.<\/p>\n

It was calving season, the worst possible time to move them.<\/p>\n

But I didn\u2019t see another choice.<\/p>\n

Phil arrived that Saturday while I was loading another group.<\/p>\n

He stood beside the gate wearing a new work coat.<\/p>\n

\u201cWade, what are you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTaking my cows home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t have to.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re my responsibility.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLeave them here. I\u2019m not going to charge you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I secured the trailer gate.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know you wouldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen why move them?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause it\u2019s your land now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil frowned.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re brothers.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n

He tried again.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere will you put forty cows?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll find pasture.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWade\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll figure it out.\u201d<\/p>\n

I climbed into the pickup and drove away.<\/p>\n

In the mirror, Phil remained beside the gate.<\/p>\n

Behind him stood our childhood home.<\/p>\n

The yellow curtain Mom had hung in the kitchen window years earlier was still there.<\/p>\n

I looked away before the road blurred.<\/p>\n

I rented pasture from Mrs. Nielsen, a widow north of Elba.<\/strong><\/h1>\n

Her husband had been a friend of Dad\u2019s.<\/p>\n

She agreed to rent me enough grazing land for five months.<\/p>\n

The cost came to thirteen thousand dollars.<\/p>\n

It was money I\u2019d never expected to spend.<\/p>\n

But my cattle needed grass.<\/p>\n

Then I visited the local agricultural cooperative.<\/p>\n

Jeff, the manager, had known me since Little League.<\/p>\n

He listened when I asked whether he needed help during the spring.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t ask why I wasn\u2019t working on Dad\u2019s farm.<\/p>\n

I appreciated that.<\/p>\n

\u201cStill have your commercial driver\u2019s license?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI need someone to haul fertilizer and help at the feed mill. Twenty-three dollars an hour.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen can I start?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMonday.\u201d<\/p>\n

So a man who\u2019d spent twenty-two years helping operate four hundred acres began hauling fertilizer to other people\u2019s fields.<\/p>\n

Every morning, I fed my own cattle before sunrise.<\/p>\n

Then I went to work.<\/p>\n

In the evenings, I returned home and handled whatever chores remained.<\/p>\n

Dad\u2019s feed truck was far more equipment than forty cows required.<\/p>\n

But I used it anyway.<\/p>\n

Every morning at five-thirty, I climbed into that cab.<\/p>\n

His gloves were still on the dashboard.<\/p>\n

And every morning, I quietly said hello.<\/p>\n

I knew how foolish it sounded.<\/p>\n

But it was the closest thing I had to talking to him.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

When April arrived, I began watching the weather.<\/p>\n

Not because I had a crop to plant.<\/p>\n

Because I knew exactly when Dad\u2019s fields should be planted.<\/p>\n

The ground beneath the center pivot warmed slowly.<\/p>\n

Dad always waited until the soil reached fifty degrees at a depth of four inches, measured at seven in the morning for three consecutive days.<\/p>\n

He kept a soil thermometer hanging on a nail in the shop.<\/p>\n

He also carried a small green notebook.<\/p>\n

Inside were decades of information about the farm.<\/p>\n

Seed populations.<\/p>\n

Planter adjustments.<\/p>\n

Irrigation settings.<\/p>\n

Equipment problems.<\/p>\n

Everything he\u2019d learned through experience.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d planted those fields every spring for twenty-two years.<\/p>\n

I knew every low spot.<\/p>\n

Every change in soil.<\/p>\n

Every section that dried slowly after heavy rain.<\/p>\n

But that spring, I wasn\u2019t there.<\/p>\n

Theresa noticed me checking the weather reports.<\/p>\n

One evening, she finally said, \u201cCall Phil.\u201d<\/p>\n

I kept eating.<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOffer to help plant.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe has my number.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWade.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked up.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe inherited the farm. If he wants me to plant it, he can ask.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s pride talking.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSome of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about the rest?\u201d<\/p>\n

I put down my fork.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve worked those fields for twenty-two springs. I\u2019m not going to beg my brother for a job on the land I thought I\u2019d spend my life farming.\u201d<\/p>\n

Theresa sighed.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe might not know how to ask.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen he needs to learn.\u201d<\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n

She simply gave me another slice of pie.<\/p>\n

That was Theresa\u2019s way of telling me I was being stubborn without starting an argument.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

By late April, the soil was warm enough to plant.<\/p>\n

Neighboring farmers began working their fields.<\/p>\n

Dad\u2019s land remained untouched.<\/p>\n

I drove past it twice a day in the fertilizer truck.<\/p>\n

The corn stalks from the previous harvest stood in silent rows.<\/p>\n

No tractor.<\/p>\n

No planter.<\/p>\n

No activity.<\/p>\n

I kept waiting for Phil to call.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

On May ninth, two inches of rain fell.<\/p>\n

Three days later, I drove past the farm and saw a sixteen-row planter moving across the center-pivot quarter.<\/p>\n

Behind it was an unfamiliar tractor.<\/p>\n

A pickup with Kansas license plates was parked nearby.<\/p>\n

Phil had hired an outside crew.<\/p>\n

I slowed down.<\/p>\n

The soil was still too wet.<\/p>\n

I could see the planter wheels pressing muddy trenches into the field.<\/p>\n

The ground was smearing instead of crumbling.<\/p>\n

Anyone who knew that land would have waited several more days.<\/p>\n

I almost turned into the driveway.<\/p>\n

My hand moved toward the indicator.<\/p>\n

Then I remembered that Phil had hired strangers instead of calling me.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d chosen someone from Kansas over his own brother.<\/p>\n

I lowered my hand.<\/p>\n

And drove past.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m not proud of that decision.<\/p>\n

But it\u2019s the truth.<\/p>\n

That evening, Theresa found me sitting in Dad\u2019s feed truck after dark.<\/p>\n

The driver\u2019s door was open.<\/p>\n

I hadn\u2019t even turned on the cab light.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey planted it too wet,\u201d I told her.<\/p>\n

She climbed onto the running board.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan it be fixed?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSome of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen why aren\u2019t you helping?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked away.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe didn\u2019t ask.\u201d<\/p>\n

She put her arm around my shoulders.<\/p>\n

We sat quietly beneath the yard light.<\/p>\n

Finally, she whispered, \u201cYour father would hate seeing you two like this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s the one who caused it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d she said. \u201cBut I think he\u2019d hate it anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

By the middle of June, the consequences were obvious.<\/strong><\/h1>\n

Corn should emerge in neat, even rows.<\/p>\n

Dad used to say a properly planted field ought to look like a choir standing in formation.<\/p>\n

This one looked terrible.<\/p>\n

Some plants were knee-high.<\/p>\n

Others were barely four inches tall.<\/p>\n

There were long gaps where nothing had emerged.<\/p>\n

In some places, several stalks crowded together.<\/p>\n

The wet planting conditions had caused the seed trenches to harden.<\/p>\n

Roots struggled to grow downward.<\/p>\n

Weeds spread between the rows.<\/p>\n

And the center-pivot irrigation system hadn\u2019t moved once.<\/p>\n

It was still sitting exactly where Dad had parked it the previous September.<\/p>\n

One tire was flat.<\/p>\n

The control panel wasn\u2019t working.<\/p>\n

On the east eighty, the crew had planted corn too densely for dryland conditions.<\/p>\n

If summer turned hot, the crop would struggle badly.<\/p>\n

Everybody in the county could see the problems.<\/p>\n

Especially Butch Sedlacek.<\/p>\n

Butch was seventy-three.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d farmed beside Dad for nearly half a century.<\/p>\n

The two men had spent decades arguing across their shared fence.<\/p>\n

But they respected each other.<\/p>\n

One Thursday evening, Butch found Phil inspecting the poor corn.<\/p>\n

He stopped his pickup beside the field.<\/p>\n

Then leaned against the fence.<\/p>\n

For a long moment, he said nothing.<\/p>\n

Finally, he spoke.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour father would\u2019ve said a blind mule could plant straighter than that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil sighed.<\/p>\n

\u201cI expect he would.\u201d<\/p>\n

Butch looked over the field.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019d have plenty to say about those gaps, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut he would\u2019ve said something else.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil looked at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019d say the crop isn\u2019t dead yet. It needs weed control, nitrogen, and irrigation. And it needs all three quickly.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil looked toward the silent center pivot.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know how to start it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Butch nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cI figured.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI called someone. He said he could come back in two weeks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t have two weeks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil removed his cap.<\/p>\n

Rubbed his forehead.<\/p>\n

And stared at the machinery.<\/p>\n

Then Butch said something that finally broke through his pride.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s a man eleven miles from here who knows everything about that irrigation system.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil lowered his eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen why aren\u2019t you calling him?\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil hesitated.<\/p>\n

Finally, he admitted the truth.<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause Dad left me the farm and gave Wade an old truck. How am I supposed to drive over there and ask him to help?\u201d<\/p>\n

Butch considered that.<\/p>\n

Then replied, \u201cThe same way he\u2019d have to come asking you. Slowly, with your hat in your hands.\u201d<\/p>\n

That evening, Phil drove to my house.<\/strong><\/h1>\n

I was outside servicing the feed truck when I heard tires crunching along our gravel driveway.<\/p>\n

I turned.<\/p>\n

It was Dad\u2019s old blue pickup.<\/p>\n

For half a second, seeing that truck approach in the evening sunlight made my heart jump.<\/p>\n

I expected Dad to step out.<\/p>\n

Instead, Phil climbed down.<\/p>\n

His boots were covered in mud.<\/p>\n

He walked toward me carrying his cap.<\/p>\n

Then he stopped beside the feed truck.<\/p>\n

He looked through the windshield.<\/p>\n

I knew he could see Dad\u2019s gloves.<\/p>\n

\u201cWade?\u201d<\/p>\n

I wiped my hands on a rag.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil stared at the ground.<\/p>\n

Then he looked at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cI need your help.\u201d<\/p>\n

Four months.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d waited four months to hear those words.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d imagined giving him a long speech.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d rehearsed everything I wanted to say about the farm, the will, and the strangers he\u2019d hired.<\/p>\n

But now he stood in front of me, holding his cap with both hands.<\/p>\n

He looked tired.<\/p>\n

Embarrassed.<\/p>\n

And more like our father than I\u2019d ever noticed before.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know what I\u2019m doing out there,\u201d he admitted.<\/p>\n

I remained silent.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know the fields are in trouble. I can see that much. But I don\u2019t understand how bad things are or what to fix first.\u201d<\/p>\n

He swallowed.<\/p>\n

\u201cWould you come take a look?\u201d<\/p>\n

All the speeches I\u2019d prepared disappeared.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhenever you can.\u201d<\/p>\n

I glanced toward the barn.<\/p>\n

\u201cSaturday. I work until noon.\u201d<\/p>\n

He exhaled.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll inspect the fields. That\u2019s all I\u2019m promising.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFair enough.\u201d<\/p>\n

Then I asked something I\u2019d been wondering for weeks.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy did you hire a crew from Kansas?\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil turned his cap slowly.<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause they didn\u2019t know me.\u201d<\/p>\n

I frowned.<\/p>\n

He continued.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf I\u2019d hired someone local, everybody would\u2019ve asked why I hadn\u2019t called my own brother. And I was too ashamed to admit I didn\u2019t know how to run Dad\u2019s farm.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at him.<\/p>\n

It was the most honest thing he\u2019d said to me since the funeral.<\/p>\n

And I realized something uncomfortable.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

We were both doing the same thing.<\/p>\n

Phil was too proud to ask.<\/p>\n

I was too proud to offer.<\/p>\n

We\u2019d spent months waiting for the other man to cross the distance between us.<\/p>\n

\u201cSaturday,\u201d I repeated.<\/p>\n

Phil nodded.<\/p>\n

Then he drove away.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

**PART 6: THE LETTER BENEATH THE SEAT**<\/p>\n

Saturday afternoon, I returned home from work and grabbed a quick lunch.<\/p>\n

Before visiting the farm, I needed Dad\u2019s green notebook.<\/p>\n

The center-pivot control panel had a history of problems.<\/p>\n

Dad had recorded every issue and how he\u2019d solved it.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d searched the workshop months earlier but hadn\u2019t found the notebook.<\/p>\n

Then I remembered the feed truck.<\/p>\n

Dad sometimes kept important things beneath the passenger seat.<\/p>\n

I climbed into the cab.<\/p>\n

His gloves were still on the dashboard.<\/p>\n

His seed-company cap lay on the passenger side.<\/p>\n

For four months, I\u2019d avoided touching anything on that side of the truck.<\/p>\n

It still felt like Dad\u2019s space.<\/p>\n

But now I reached beneath the seat.<\/p>\n

I pulled out a heavy chain.<\/p>\n

Then jumper cables.<\/p>\n

A small coffee can filled with spare pins.<\/p>\n

And finally, a zippered bank deposit bag.<\/p>\n

I opened it.<\/p>\n

Inside was the green notebook.<\/p>\n

I smiled faintly.<\/p>\n

Of course Dad had put it there.<\/p>\n

But something else was inside.<\/p>\n

A plain white envelope.<\/p>\n

My name was written across the front in Dad\u2019s unmistakable block handwriting.<\/p>\n

**Wade Kucera.**<\/p>\n

Our road.<\/p>\n

Elba, Nebraska.<\/p>\n

There was even a stamp attached.<\/p>\n

But the envelope had never been mailed.<\/p>\n

I stared at it.<\/p>\n

Then sat on the truck\u2019s running board and carefully opened it with my pocketknife.<\/p>\n

Inside was a single sheet torn from a yellow legal pad.<\/p>\n

The letter was dated November ninth.<\/p>\n

Four days before Dad visited Don Jensen to prepare his will.<\/p>\n

I began reading.<\/p>\n

*Wade,*<\/p>\n

*I\u2019m not much good at explaining things, so I\u2019ll put this plainly.*<\/p>\n

*The farm isn\u2019t free and clear. I borrowed against it when I installed the irrigation pivot. I borrowed again when your mother got sick. And after the flood in 2019, I borrowed more.*<\/p>\n

*The total debt is $388,000.*<\/p>\n

I stopped.<\/p>\n

My hands went cold.<\/p>\n

Three hundred eighty-eight thousand dollars?<\/p>\n

Dad had never told me.<\/p>\n

I continued.<\/p>\n

*The annual payment is $38,000. The farm hasn\u2019t made enough clear profit to cover that payment in six years.*<\/p>\n

*I\u2019ve been borrowing money to pay money I already owed.*<\/p>\n

*I\u2019m ashamed of it.*<\/p>\n

I swallowed.<\/p>\n

All those years I\u2019d worked beside him, I assumed the farm was financially stable.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d never allowed me to see the accounts.<\/p>\n

I simply trusted him.<\/p>\n

Then I reached the next paragraph.<\/p>\n

*If I leave the farm to you, I know exactly what you\u2019ll do.*<\/p>\n

*You\u2019ll keep it.*<\/p>\n

*You\u2019ll work harder, borrow more, and spend the rest of your life trying to save every acre.*<\/p>\n

*Theresa will go without things she deserves, just like your mother did.*<\/p>\n

*You\u2019ll never complain.*<\/p>\n

*And you\u2019ll keep sacrificing until there\u2019s nothing left of you.*<\/p>\n

My eyes blurred.<\/p>\n

Dad had known me.<\/p>\n

Better than I\u2019d realized.<\/p>\n

The letter continued.<\/p>\n

*Phil will sell the farm if he needs to. He understands money, and he doesn\u2019t love the land the way you do.*<\/p>\n

*Don\u2019t blame him for that.*<\/p>\n

*When he was nineteen, I told him he wasn\u2019t cut out to be a farmer. He believed me. That\u2019s my fault.*<\/p>\n

*Phil will clear the debt. There should be money left, and I believe he\u2019ll divide it fairly with you.*<\/p>\n

*I\u2019m trusting him to do the right thing.*<\/p>\n

Then came the sentence that explained my inheritance.<\/p>\n

*I\u2019m leaving you the feed truck because it\u2019s paid for.*<\/p>\n

*It\u2019s probably the only thing on the place that is.*<\/p>\n

I covered my mouth.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d said almost those exact words to Theresa the day I brought the truck home.<\/p>\n

Then I read the final lines.<\/p>\n

*I should mail this letter.*<\/p>\n

*Knowing me, I\u2019ll probably leave it in the truck.*<\/p>\n

*You were the best help a man ever had.*<\/p>\n

*I should\u2019ve told you that while it would\u2019ve meant something.*<\/p>\n

*Dad.*<\/p>\n

I read those words twice.<\/p>\n

Then I tried to read them again.<\/p>\n

But tears blurred the page.<\/p>\n

Twenty-two years I\u2019d worked beside that man.<\/p>\n

Twenty-two springs planting corn.<\/p>\n

Twenty-two winters fixing equipment.<\/p>\n

Twenty-two years feeding cattle, hauling grain, and repairing fences.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d rarely praised me.<\/p>\n

Even when we had a good harvest, he\u2019d simply say the work had turned out all right.<\/p>\n

When I worked through a blizzard to save newborn calves, he acted as though that was what any farmer should do.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d spent most of my adult life hoping he\u2019d say he was proud of me.<\/p>\n

And now those words were written on a sheet of yellow paper.<\/p>\n

Hidden beneath the seat of an old truck.<\/p>\n

A letter he\u2019d been too uncomfortable to mail.<\/p>\n

I bent forward and cried.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

**PART 7: WHAT MY BROTHER HAD BEEN HIDING**<\/p>\n

Theresa found me sitting on the running board.<\/p>\n

She immediately knew something was wrong.<\/p>\n

\u201cWade?\u201d<\/p>\n

I handed her the letter.<\/p>\n

She read it slowly.<\/p>\n

Then sat beside me.<\/p>\n

For a long time, neither of us spoke.<\/p>\n

Finally, she whispered, \u201cHe knew exactly what you would\u2019ve done.\u201d<\/p>\n

I nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe could\u2019ve told me.\u201d<\/p>\n

She gently folded the paper.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwenty-two years, Theresa. He never said he appreciated what I did.\u201d<\/p>\n

She rested her head against mine.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe loved you. He just didn\u2019t know how to say it.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared at the letter.<\/p>\n

Then I made a decision.<\/p>\n

I climbed into the cab.<\/p>\n

Placed Dad\u2019s notebook beside me.<\/p>\n

Set the letter on the dashboard near his gloves.<\/p>\n

And started the truck.<\/p>\n

Eleven miles later, I turned into the farm driveway.<\/p>\n

Phil was standing outside the workshop.<\/p>\n

He watched the old truck approach.<\/p>\n

When I stopped, I leaned across the bench seat and opened the passenger door.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet in.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil frowned.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust get in.\u201d<\/p>\n

He climbed into the truck.<\/p>\n

He had to move Dad\u2019s old cap before sitting down.<\/p>\n

He held it awkwardly in his hands.<\/p>\n

I gave him the letter.<\/p>\n

\u201cFound this beneath the seat.\u201d<\/p>\n

He put on his glasses.<\/p>\n

I looked out through the windshield while he read.<\/p>\n

A sparrow was building a nest near the workshop.<\/p>\n

The yard looked exactly as it had when Dad was alive.<\/p>\n

I heard Phil reach the bottom of the page.<\/p>\n

Then he started reading again.<\/p>\n

Finally, he whispered:<\/p>\n

**\u201cDad trusted me to do the right thing.\u201d**<\/p>\n

I nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe did.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil removed his glasses.<\/p>\n

His eyes filled.<\/p>\n

Then he reached into his shirt pocket.<\/p>\n

He pulled out a folded sheet of paper.<\/p>\n

It looked as though he\u2019d carried it for months.<\/p>\n

\u201cWade, there\u2019s something I need to show you.\u201d<\/p>\n

He handed it over.<\/p>\n

It was dated March first.<\/p>\n

Only days after the will had been read.<\/p>\n

On the page, Phil had calculated the estimated sale value of the farm.<\/p>\n

Below that, he\u2019d subtracted the bank debt.<\/p>\n

Then he\u2019d drawn a line.<\/p>\n

The remaining amount was divided equally.<\/p>\n

One half labeled **Phil**.<\/p>\n

The other labeled **Wade**.<\/p>\n

I stared at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were planning to split the inheritance?\u201d<\/p>\n

He nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cFrom the beginning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell me?\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil looked down.<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you knew about the debt.\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head.<\/p>\n

\u201cI never saw Dad\u2019s financial books.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know that now.\u201d<\/p>\n

He hesitated.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wanted to finish one crop before selling anything. I wanted to hand you a check from a harvest I\u2019d managed myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n

He took a shaky breath.<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause Dad told me when I was nineteen that I\u2019d never make a farmer.\u201d<\/p>\n

His voice broke.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve spent thirty-seven years trying to prove him wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked toward the letter.<\/p>\n

Phil continued.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hired those men from Kansas because I was ashamed to ask you for help. Then they ruined the planting. And I thought I\u2019d proven Dad right.\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head.<\/p>\n

\u201cRead his letter again, Phil.\u201d<\/p>\n

He looked at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad admitted he was wrong to say that to you. He knew he\u2019d hurt you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil\u2019s face crumpled.<\/p>\n

Then he laughed bitterly.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe finally apologized on a piece of paper.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at Dad\u2019s handwriting.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe finally told me he was proud of me on a piece of paper.\u201d<\/p>\n

For a moment, both of us laughed.<\/p>\n

Then neither of us could stop crying.<\/p>\n

Two grown men in their fifties.<\/p>\n

Sitting in their dead father\u2019s feed truck.<\/p>\n

With his worn gloves on the dashboard.<\/p>\n

We cried for the father we\u2019d lost.<\/p>\n

For the things he\u2019d never said.<\/p>\n

And for the four months we\u2019d wasted being too proud to speak honestly.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

**PART 8: THE FARM\u2019S SECOND CHANCE**<\/p>\n

Eventually, Phil wiped his face.<\/p>\n

He placed Dad\u2019s cap beside the gloves.<\/p>\n

Then turned toward me.<\/p>\n

\u201cWill you show me what\u2019s wrong with the fields?\u201d<\/p>\n

I nodded.<\/p>\n

We spent the next two hours walking through the center-pivot quarter.<\/p>\n

I dug up corn plants and showed him the damaged root systems.<\/p>\n

I explained the problems caused by planting wet soil.<\/p>\n

I pointed out the weeds spreading between rows.<\/p>\n

Then we inspected the irrigation system.<\/p>\n

I opened Dad\u2019s green notebook.<\/p>\n

There it was.<\/p>\n

A note dated 2017.<\/p>\n

*Tower five safety switch. Clean and reset.*<\/p>\n

We inflated the flat tire.<\/p>\n

I cleaned the faulty connection.<\/p>\n

Phil operated the controls.<\/strong><\/h1>\n

The center pivot groaned.<\/p>\n

Shuddered.<\/p>\n

And slowly began moving.<\/p>\n

Water fell across the struggling corn.<\/p>\n

Phil stood silently watching.<\/p>\n

Then he looked at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou think we can save the crop?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSome of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

He nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen let\u2019s try.\u201d<\/p>\n

Afterward, we sat on the tailgate of Dad\u2019s blue pickup.<\/p>\n

That was where he used to settle almost every important farm decision.<\/p>\n

Phil stared toward the house.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want to sell everything,\u201d he admitted.<\/p>\n

I sighed.<\/p>\n

\u201cWith that debt, we may not have a choice.\u201d<\/p>\n

He pulled a pencil from his pocket.<\/p>\n

\u201cButch told me he\u2019d asked Dad twice about buying the east eighty.\u201d<\/p>\n

I nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s wanted it for years.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat would that land sell for?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout five thousand dollars an acre, especially to Butch.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil began calculating.<\/p>\n

Eighty acres multiplied by five thousand dollars.<\/p>\n

**$400,000.**<\/p>\n

Then he wrote down the farm debt.<\/p>\n

**$388,000.**<\/p>\n

He drew a line beneath the figures.<\/p>\n

We both stared at the result.<\/p>\n

Selling only the east eighty could potentially clear the entire bank debt.<\/p>\n

Phil looked up.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat means we could keep the home quarter and creek pasture.\u201d<\/p>\n

I nodded slowly.<\/p>\n

\u201cFree of the mortgage debt, assuming the sale works out.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dad had always refused to sell that land.<\/p>\n

But now we were facing a choice he\u2019d never believed he could make.<\/p>\n

Phil continued.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe could put the remaining property in both our names. Half each.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cPhil\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou manage the farm. Bring your cattle back. Pay reasonable rent on my share. I\u2019ll put the rental income back into machinery and improvements.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat doesn\u2019t sound like much of a deal for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

He smiled sadly.<\/p>\n

\u201cWade, I sell insurance. I have a pension. I\u2019m not asking the farm to support me.\u201d<\/p>\n

He looked at the farmhouse.<\/p>\n

\u201cI just don\u2019t want it to disappear.\u201d<\/p>\n

Then he added something unexpected.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut there\u2019s one condition.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI want to spend one week here every spring.\u201d<\/p>\n

I frowned.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoing what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlanting.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared at him.<\/p>\n

Phil looked embarrassed.<\/p>\n

\u201cI want to drive a tractor on Dad\u2019s land. Just once every year. And I want my little brother to tell me whether I\u2019m doing it right.\u201d<\/p>\n

I felt my throat tighten.<\/p>\n

Then I held out my hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cDeal.\u201d<\/p>\n

He shook it.<\/p>\n

No lawyer.<\/p>\n

No elaborate negotiations.<\/p>\n

Just two brothers making an agreement on the tailgate of their father\u2019s old pickup.<\/p>\n

The formal paperwork would come later.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

That evening, we visited Butch.<\/p>\n

He sat on his porch and listened while we explained the plan.<\/p>\n

When Phil mentioned five thousand dollars an acre for the east eighty, Butch nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s exactly what I would\u2019ve offered your father.\u201d<\/p>\n

He shook our hands.<\/p>\n

Then smiled.<\/p>\n

\u201cTook you boys long enough to figure things out.\u201d<\/p>\n

Phil glanced at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe had the answer sitting under a truck seat.\u201d<\/p>\n

Butch looked puzzled.<\/p>\n

Neither of us explained.<\/p>\n

Some things didn\u2019t need explaining.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/p>\n

**PART 9: THE FIRST HARVEST TOGETHER**<\/p>\n

The damaged corn wasn\u2019t magically restored.<\/p>\n

We worked hard to save what we could.<\/p>\n

The cooperative sprayed the weeds.<\/p>\n

We applied additional nitrogen.<\/p>\n

And the irrigation pivot continued operating throughout the summer.<\/p>\n

By October, the center-pivot field produced 171 bushels per acre.<\/p>\n

Dad might have expected around 215 under better conditions.<\/p>\n

Phil rode in the combine with me throughout the harvest.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

When the yield monitor showed the final average, he studied the number.<\/p>\n

Then he said quietly, \u201cThose missing forty-four bushels are what my pride cost.\u201d<\/p>\n

He opened Dad\u2019s green notebook.<\/p>\n

And wrote the number down.<\/p>\n

In ink.<\/p>\n

With the date.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t tell him to stop blaming himself.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d made mistakes.<\/p>\n

So had I.<\/p>\n

But now we were learning from them.<\/p>\n

And we were doing it together.<\/p>\n

The following spring, Phil took a week off from his insurance job.<\/strong><\/h1>\n

He arrived at the farm before sunrise.<\/p>\n

I checked the soil temperature.<\/p>\n

Fifty degrees.<\/p>\n

Three mornings in a row.<\/p>\n

Exactly the way Dad taught me.<\/p>\n

Then I prepared the planter.<\/p>\n

Phil climbed into the tractor seat.<\/p>\n

I stood beside him for the first pass.<\/p>\n

The same way Dad had stood beside me when I was eleven.<\/p>\n

My brother guided the machine across the field.<\/p>\n

Sixteen straight rows stretched toward the far fence.<\/p>\n

At the end, he slowed down and looked over his shoulder.<\/p>\n

\u201cWas that right?\u201d<\/p>\n

I studied the rows.<\/p>\n

Then smiled.<\/p>\n

**\u201cThat\u2019s exactly right, Phil.\u201d**<\/p>\n

He nodded.<\/p>\n

Didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n

But I saw his eyes shine.<\/p>\n

I turned toward the field to give him a moment.<\/p>\n

At noon, Theresa brought sandwiches, coffee, and an entire pie.<\/p>\n

We ate on the tailgate of Dad\u2019s pickup.<\/p>\n

The planter rested nearby.<\/p>\n

Birds sang along the fence.<\/p>\n

For the first time in a long while, the farm felt like home again.<\/p>\n

I still drive Dad\u2019s old feed truck every morning.<\/p>\n

Phil keeps suggesting we buy something newer.<\/p>\n

I tell him the truck runs fine.<\/p>\n

Besides, it\u2019s paid for.<\/p>\n

The gloves remain on the dashboard.<\/p>\n

Still curled into the shape of Dad\u2019s hands.<\/p>\n

His old seed-company cap sits beside them.<\/p>\n

The letter is safely kept inside our house, tucked into Mom\u2019s Bible.<\/p>\n

Theresa said something that important shouldn\u2019t be left in a truck.<\/p>\n

But the envelope with Phil\u2019s calculations remains beneath the passenger seat.<\/p>\n

Exactly where Dad had hidden his letter.<\/p>\n

Sometimes I think about those four months after the funeral.<\/p>\n

How angry I was.<\/p>\n

How certain I felt that Dad had overlooked everything I\u2019d sacrificed.<\/p>\n

How stubbornly I refused to ask my brother for help.<\/p>\n

And how Phil spent those same months believing he had to prove he deserved the farm.<\/p>\n

Dad had tried to protect both of us.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d known I would sacrifice everything to keep the land.<\/p>\n

And he\u2019d trusted Phil to divide the inheritance fairly.<\/p>\n

But his silence nearly destroyed the relationship between his sons.<\/p>\n

In the end, it wasn\u2019t the will that saved the farm.<\/p>\n

It was a letter he\u2019d been afraid to mail.<\/p>\n

A piece of paper Phil had carried in his pocket.<\/p>\n

And two brothers finally saying things their father never quite knew how to say.<\/p>\n

**For twenty-two years, I\u2019d wanted Dad to tell me I was good enough.**<\/p>\n

**For thirty-seven years, Phil had wanted him to believe he could be a farmer.**<\/p>\n

Dad had died before he could tell either of us face-to-face.<\/p>\n

But somehow, we found the answers together.<\/p>\n

And every spring, when Phil drives the planter across the home quarter, I stand beside him for that first pass.<\/p>\n

He always looks back at the rows.<\/p>\n

And he always asks the same question.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid I do it right?\u201d<\/p>\n

I always give him the answer.<\/p>\n

**\u201cYou did, Phil. You did it just right.\u201d**<\/p>\n

I think Dad would have liked that.<\/p>\n

And every morning, when I climb into his old feed truck, I still glance toward the passenger seat.<\/p>\n

For months after his death, I couldn\u2019t bring myself to touch that side of the cab.<\/p>\n

It belonged to him.<\/p>\n

But I understand something now.<\/p>\n

**There was always room for someone else beside me.**<\/p>\n

I just had to learn to reach across.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

AFTER WORKING ON MY FATHER\u2019S FARM FOR 22 YEARS, I WATCHED MY BROTHER INHERIT ALL 400 ACRES. I RECEIVED ONE OLD FEED TRUCK. My older brother, Phil, had spent thirty … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":37275,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,4,5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-52795","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-family","category-inspiration","category-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52795","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=52795"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52795\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":52796,"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52795\/revisions\/52796"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/37275"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=52795"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=52795"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readingdairy.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=52795"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}