At my high school graduation party, Dad told me there was no money for college because “school was always harder” for me—while my 16-year-old sister had a new Jeep and $60,000 in her college fund. I already had a college acceptance letter in my pocket, but he wouldn’t even complete the financial-aid form. When I packed to move in with the uncle he called “the family loser,” Dad stood in the hallway and said, “You’ll be back by the Fourth of July.”

And then he took one more paper out of an envelope, the paper from that folder, and set it on the desk. Gordon read it, nodded, and slid it back. Well, he said, “That settles that.” Hoyt put it back in the envelope. I never saw what it said. Not then. I’ll get to that folder.

We got the loan, and that August, we won the restroom contract for the Missouri State Fair. The fair is in Sedalia. 11 days every August, 300,000 people, livestock barns, the grandstand concerts, the whole thing. The old vendor had lost the contract the year before after a lot of complaints, and the fairboard wanted trailers by the grandstand and the exhibit halls.

We were the only company close enough to service them every night. So that August, Emmett and Sons Pumping was everywhere in my dad’s hometown, on every unit by the midway, on every trailer by the grandstand, on the trucks going up and down the fairgrounds roads at 5 in the morning. Dad’s buddies from the plant sent him pictures. I know because Mom called.

Your father can’t even walk past the grandstand. Every building out there has your uncle’s name on it. Could you at least take the name off for the fair? No. Reed, it’s embarrassing for him. It’s Grandpa’s name, Mom. It’s been on that sign since before Dad was born. You know what I mean? I do.

I said and no. That Thanksgiving was the first time anybody from home invited me to anything. Mom called the week before. Come for Thanksgiving. Just you. Your father doesn’t want a scene. Is Hoyt invited? Reed. Don’t make this into then I’ll come the year he’s invited. Thanksgiving dinner that year was at Marva’s house with her husband Delmare who carved the turkey with an electric knife like he was diffusing something.

Hoyt brought a pie from the gas station and acted like he made it. Marva led him. Nobody called the next November or the one after that. I graduated in May of the next year. Bachelor’s degree in business, a 3.6 grade point average, and I’d worked the route the whole time. Hoyt and Marva drove up to Warrensburg and sat in the stands.

Hoyt wore a tie that I’m pretty sure was older than me. And when they read my name, he stood up and clapped so loud the people in front of him turned around. My parents didn’t come. I didn’t expect them to. I hadn’t sent an invitation and they hadn’t asked. That afternoon, Mom texted, “Congratulations!” with an exclamation point.

Then 4 minutes later, a picture of Skyler holding her deans list certificate from Mizzou. Hoyt read it over my shoulder. He didn’t say anything. He just took me to Golden Corral, which is where Hoyt takes people when he’s proud of them. The next two years went fast. We kept saying yes to things.

More fairs, construction crews on the new highway work, the bass tournaments on Truman Lake, a big golf tournament at the Lake of the Ozarks, graduation parties, weddings, festivals. We put a second yard on the north side of Sedalia in my dad’s town because that’s where half our customers were. By the summer I turned 24, Emmett and Sons Pumping had 22 trucks, 15 restroom trailers, about 1,200 units, and 31 people getting a paycheck every Friday. Marva signed every one of them.

She still wouldn’t make breakfast. I ran operations and did the hiring. Hoyt still drove a route on Fridays because he said if he ever stopped, he’d forget what the job was. That January, the wire plant closed. It was on the news in Sedalia for a week. The company moved everything to a plant in Tennessee and 240 people lost their jobs, my dad included.

26 years. He was 57. I heard about it from Marva who heard about it from the radio. Mom called in March. She sounded different, smaller. Your father sent out over 40 applications, Reed. 40. Nobody wants a 57-year-old controller. They all want somebody young they can pay less. I said I was sorry to hear it.

I was. His severance runs out in May, she said, and we still owe on the house. She waited like I was supposed to fill in the rest. I didn’t. In May, Skyler graduated from Mizzou with her marketing degree, the one her $60,000 bought. She moved back home and got a part-time job at a clothing boutique on Ohio Avenue, while she sent out applications, too.