I put on my quilted vest and walked next door.
Wayne and Donna have lived beside me for twenty-six years. Wayne is retired from the county roads department. He still runs about thirty cows out toward Ayr. Which means he owns a sixteen-foot bumper-pull stock trailer.
Donna had me at her kitchen table with coffee before I’d finished the first sentence.
I told it plain. And I didn’t run Stephanie down, because she’s my daughter.
Wayne listened with his arms folded.
“So you need the table hauled,” he said.
“The table. Both leaves. Twelve chairs. And a turkey.”
“I power-washed the trailer after I took calves to the sale barn in October. It’s clean as it’s going to get. I’ll lay a tarp down.”
He thought a minute.
“How do the legs come off?”
“Bolts. Up in the corners. Don always used a socket.”
“Nine-sixteenths, probably. I’ll bring the set.”
He looked at me over his coffee cup.
“You sure about this, Roberta? Once it’s on the trailer, it’s on the trailer.”
“I’m sure I’ve got company coming and no place to put them.”
Donna had been quiet.
“How much company?”
“Harold. And me.”
“Our kids are at his folks’ in Sioux Falls this year,” she said. “I was going to do a turkey breast and feel sorry for us.”
She put her hand flat on the table.
“What time?”
“One o’clock.”
“I’ll bring the sweet potatoes and the green bean thing.”
That made four.
By supper, it was nine. Because Donna told Pat across the street.
Pat and her husband, Jim, had their daughter Kim home with her two little boys. Kim’s husband works for the railroad, and he was sitting on a train somewhere west of North Platte. The railroad doesn’t care one bit what day it is. Pat had been dreading her own kitchen.
She called me herself.
“Roberta, is it true you’re having people? Because I will pay you money.”
“Bring the boys,” I said. “Bring a relish tray.”
Tuesday morning, I called Stephanie at the dental office where she works the front desk.
I wasn’t going to show up at her door without a word. I won’t do that to anyone. Least of all my own child.
“I’ll be by at four,” I said. “I’ll be needing my things for Thursday.”
“The turkey? Mom, I was going to—”
I heard her cover the phone and say something to a patient.
“Okay. Fine. Dylan’ll be home from school. I’ll just buy another one. I have to go, we’re slammed.”
“Stephanie, I mean all my things.”
But she’d already hung up.
I stood there holding the phone. And I decided the Lord had heard me say it, even if she hadn’t.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.