The Farmer, The Investor, & The Visionary Part 11: The Farmer’s Seed of Doubt

The farmhouse was quiet, too quiet. Nathan Hale stood in the middle of the kitchen, his hands gripping the back of a chair, staring at the pile of bills spread out on the table. The fluorescent bulb overhead buzzed faintly, a tiny, incessant hum that matched the static in his brain. The smell of coffee lingered in the air, but the pot was cold, the dregs bitter.

Clara had taken Ben to her sister’s house for the weekend. She’d said it was for a “change of scenery” for their son, but Nathan knew better. Clara needed the break as much as Ben needed distraction. The pressure in the house had grown unbearable in the past few months, the walls almost humming with unspoken worries. He didn’t blame her for wanting to leave, even if only for a few days. He almost envied her for it.

The words on the bills seemed to taunt him: past due, urgent, foreclosure. They felt like they were shouting from the paper, screaming his failures into the empty kitchen. His hands clenched the chair tighter until his knuckles turned white.

He had never thought it would come to this. The farm had been in his family for three generations. His grandfather had carved it out of raw prairie, and his father had expanded it, building the barn and irrigation system that had once been the envy of neighboring farms. Nathan had always believed he could carry the torch, that the land would pass to Ben one day, just as it had passed to him. But now? Now it felt like he was trying to hold sand in his fists, the harder he gripped, the faster it slipped away.

He sat heavily in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight. The bank’s letter was on top of the pile, the one he kept reading over and over as if the words might change. Final Notice of Foreclosure. It was definitive, clinical, and it might as well have been a death sentence.

He had tried everything: tightening their spending, working longer hours, even borrowing against the last piece of unencumbered land. And for what? The drought had laughed in his face, drying up the fields despite his prayers. The irrigation pump had broken at the worst possible time, and now the parts he needed to fix it were sitting on a shelf at Midwest Parts Co., completely out of reach.

Nathan rubbed his face with both hands, his fingers digging into his temples. He thought about calling Clara. She’d been so strong, holding the family together even when he knew she was just as terrified as he was. But what could he say? That he had no plan? That the farm was days away from being taken by the bank?

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. He couldn’t sit here and drown in it. He needed air, space, something to pull him out of the spiral.

Nathan grabbed his keys and stepped outside. The night was cool and clear, the stars sharp pinpricks against a velvet sky. The farm looked peaceful in the darkness, the outlines of the barn and fields softened by moonlight. It was almost cruel, the way it looked so still, so permanent, when he knew it was anything but.

The truck started with a groan, the engine coughing before settling into a low rumble. He didn’t have a destination in mind, just the urge to move. The gravel crunched under the tires as he pulled onto the dirt road that led away from the house.

The countryside rolled out before him, the fields stretching endlessly on either side of the road. He passed other farms, their houses dark and quiet, their barns standing like sentinels. He wondered how many of them were fighting the same battles he was. Probably all of them. But nobody talked about it. Farmers were supposed to be strong, resilient, unshakable. Admitting you were struggling was like admitting you’d failed.

He ended up at the edge of a field he hadn’t visited in years. It wasn’t part of his land, it belonged to a neighbor who’d sold it to a large agri-business conglomerate years ago. The fields were unnaturally perfect, every row identical, the crops genetically engineered to withstand pests and weather that killed his own. It wasn’t farming the way he knew it, but it was thriving in a way his land never could.

Nathan stepped out of the truck and leaned against the hood, staring out at the endless rows. His breath puffed in the cold air, and for a moment, he felt completely untethered, like the world was spinning without him.

He thought about his father, the way the man had walked their fields with quiet confidence, always knowing what to do next. Nathan had spent his whole life trying to live up to that example, but now he realized he’d never understood it. His father had struggled too, he knew that now. But he’d hidden it well. Maybe too well.

The thought brought an unexpected wave of anger. Why hadn’t his father told him? Why had he left him to figure this out alone? Nathan kicked at the dirt, his boot scraping against the gravel. He felt the tears coming, but he forced them back. He couldn’t afford to cry. Not here, not now.

The stars above him were impossibly bright, the only light in the vast darkness. Nathan stared at them, his chest tight, his fists clenched. He wanted to scream, to curse the universe for its indifference. But all he could do was stand there, silent and still, as the weight of everything pressed down on him.

When he finally got back in the truck, his hands were shaking. The drive home felt longer, the shadows along the road deeper. When he pulled into the driveway, the house loomed before him, its dark windows staring back like hollow eyes.

Nathan sat in the cab for a long time, the engine ticking as it cooled. He thought about the bills on the kitchen table, about Clara and Ben, about the farm that was slipping through his fingers. He thought about giving up. Just walking away and letting the bank have it. But then he thought about Ben, about the legacy he’d promised his son, and the thought turned to ash in his mouth.

Nathan finally climbed out of the truck and walked back into the house. The bills were still there, waiting for him. He sat at the table, picked up the letter from the bank, and read it again.

He didn’t know how he was going to fix this. But he knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t done fighting. Not yet.