I was there when the sign went up. Not the fancy real estate kind, just a plywood square Dad slapped together with paint that was peeling before he even hammered it into the ground. FOR SALE. His handwriting, thick and familiar, looked like a shout against the muted winter sky. The ground was hard, frozen solid, the kind of earth that wouldn’t give up anything without a fight. It felt like the land itself was resisting, even if my parents weren’t. Not anymore. My mother stood by the kitchen window, watching him. Her silhouette was a familiar ache in my chest. She didn't say anything, just traced patterns on the condensation-fogged glass. I knew what she was thinking, what she wasn't saying, what we ALL weren't saying. That sign wasn't just about money, wasn’t just about the practical reality of two aging bodies trying to work acres that demanded youth and strength. It was about an ending, plain and simple, and the beginning of nothing. I remember Dad coming back inside, brushing off the frost from his gloves. The smell of cold air and old earth clung to him. He didn’t meet my eyes. He just went straight for the kettle, the way he always did after being outside. The steam from his mug fogged his glasses, and for a second, he looked lost, or maybe just… small. It hit me then, a punch to the gut: these titans, these people who’d carved a life out of rock and stubbornness, they were shrinking. And I was just watching it happen. Later, over lukewarm tea, he finally spoke. "It's for the best, son. You know we can't keep it up." His voice was gruff, but I could hear the cracks in it, the places where the effort of saying those words had worn through. My mother just nodded, a silent agreement that felt heavier than any argument. And I… I just sat there. I couldn't say anything. What was there to say? "No, don't sell the place that was supposed to be MINE, the place I ran from because I was too GOOD for it, the place I now desperately want but can't AFFORD"? Yeah, that would have gone over well. I see the farm in my dreams now, always vivid, always sun-drenched, even though it’s winter and gray in real life. The smell of turned earth, the hum of the tractor, the way the light hit the old barn wood just before sunset. It's a cruel trick, these memories, because they’re not just memories anymore. They’re ghosts of a future that never arrived, a path I explicitly rejected but somehow still felt entitled to. The weight of that contradiction is crushing. Sometimes I think about my grandfather, how he broke his back on this land, how his hands were permanently curled from work. He had a picture of the farm hanging in the living room, a faded photo from the 50s, framed like a treasure. It WAS a treasure. An inheritance. And now… now it's just real estate. A listing on some website. A series of numbers. The anger is a live thing in my chest. It gnaws. At them, for giving up. At myself, for leaving. For not being here. For not being strong enough, rich enough, DEDICATED enough to keep it going. The truth is, I couldn’t have. My life is a different kind of scramble, a paycheck-to-paycheck existence in a city apartment where the only dirt I see is on the soles of my shoes. But that doesn’t stop the resentment from festering. They talk about moving to a smaller house in town, something easy to manage. "Less work," Mom said, almost cheerfully. But I know what that means. Less life. Less of everything that made them THEM. And I’m stuck watching the final chapter unfold, knowing I’m part of the reason it’s ending this way. The last of the line. And the line just… stops here. No next generation. Just an empty field and a FOR SALE sign.