“I want to start a small farm. Chickens, goats, maybe some pigs. Something that will give me a steady income, but also keep me busy.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea. Is your family on board?”
“My family is me, doctor, and I am completely on board.”
That afternoon, Helen and I sat at the dining room table making plans. She brought paper and pencil, and I laid all my ideas on the table.
“What if we start a small home-cooked meal business?” Helen suggested. “Your cooking is delicious, and I know how to make preserves and jams.”
“Do you think it would work?”
“There’s no one in town who sells homemade food. All the women work outside the home now. I’m sure there’s a market.” Helen added. “or even do home delivery.”
We started crunching the numbers. With the savings, I no longer had to share with David and his family. I could invest in basic equipment for a small commercial kitchen, and we could sell at the Saturday market, Helen added. or even do home delivery.
For the first time in years, I was excited about something. I had a project, a purpose, a reason to get up every morning that wasn’t just survival.
That night, as I ate dinner alone in the kitchen, I realized something. The house felt bigger, not emptier, bigger, as if I had reclaimed spaces I didn’t know I had lost.
The phone rang at 9:00 at night. It was a number I didn’t recognize.
“Margaret.” The voice was of a young, shy woman.
“Yes, this is Margaret. Who is this, please?”
