Sam’s face went white, then red. “You don’t get to use that.”

“Why not?” Nell’s voice cracked. “We’ve used everything else. The land. The money. Mom’s silence.”

“Someone has to stir it,” Nell shot back. “You were supposed to take over two hours ago. Just like you were supposed to help with the farm loan paperwork. Just like you were supposed to show up for Dad’s last appointment.”

“I’m saying,” Junie replied, “that we stop stirring resentment and start stirring a deal. Nell runs the farm. Sam, you lease the land back to the partnership for a dollar a year. In exchange, we take out a loan together for the boys’ tuition and your settlement. We sink or swim as one unit.”

“Here we go,” Sam sighed, pushing off the fence. “The martyrdom of Saint Nell. She stirs the pot, and we all have to eat the guilt.”

That was the crack in the dam. For five years, no one had spoken of the last appointment. Their father, Arthur, had died of a stroke in a hospital parking lot while waiting for Sam, who had been “fifteen minutes away” for two hours.

But Eleanor “Nell” Hawthorne knew better. The steam wasn’t just from the kettle; it was from grievances left to simmer for decades.

The apple butter boiled on. And the family, fractured and fierce, stirred together into something new.