I pulled my car beneath the sprawling canopy of the old oak tree, its leaves heavy and dripping from the previous night’s downpour. In my hands, I cradled a jar of homemade blackberry jam, holding it gently as if it were spun glass. Ivy didn’t know I was coming; I had pictured a quiet morning coffee, a small surprise to brighten a week that I suspected had been difficult. She used to live for unexpected moments of joy, but the moment I crossed the threshold into the farmhouse, the atmosphere shifted. The kitchen, usually a sanctuary of open space and light, felt suffocatingly full.
How Gifting a Farm to My Daughter Led to a Dispute with Her In-Laws!
