Page 3 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
I used to walk these orchard rows with dirt under my fingernails and daydream about cities with high-rises and gallery openings and brunch menus that didn’t include the word “gravy.” I used to imagine getting out of here like it was the finish line of a race.
Ben was the same way—just smarter about it. He left right after hight school, didn’t look back. He’s in Fort Collins now, doing some government job with a title I never remember and a mission that involves a lot of environmental data and field gear. Water samples, satellite imagery, endangered frogs. That kind of thing. Saving the planet one spreadsheet at a time.
He’s the good one. The driven one. The one who knew what he wanted and actually became it.
I’m happy for him. I am.
But me? I’m back where I started—wearing the same hoodie I packed for college, eating cereal out of a chipped bowl that still has my name on the bottom in Sharpie. Trying to convince myself this is temporary. That this is a detour and not the end of the road.
But sometimes, in the quiet, I wonder if I ever really left at all.
By the timethe heat settles heavy over the barn roof, I’m back inside, sorting apples into crates.
The air inside is warm and smells like old wood, cider, and dust. A box fan hums from the corner, rattling slightly every time it rotates toward the worktable. I tug on gloves that are too big and already stained, then slide a shallow bin toward me. Gala apples, bruised but salvageable, most of them small and a little misshapen. Too ugly for the produce stand. Good enough for cider, if we can find someone to buy.
Mom stands across from me, sorting her own batch with absent-minded ease. Her hair is pinned up under a sun hat, and a pencil rests behind one ear like always. We don’t talk much as we work. We never have. There’s something about this place that encourages silence. Thought. Stillness.
I set aside an apple with a long gash down one side and stare at the pile in front of me.
The funny thing is. I’ve never forgotten this place—the farm, the town, Silvercreek. It’s always in the back of my mind, no matter where I am. I used to daydream about this place when I lived in Portland—romanticize it when I was overtired and blinking at a screen at midnight. I'd think,at least at home the work is honest.No meetings that could’ve been emails. No smug thirtysomethings who treated me like a barista with Adobeskills. No passive-aggressive creative director or ex telling me my work had “nice energy” but lacked “modern playfulness.”
God, what a nightmare.
Officially, I was a junior designer. But that didn’t mean what it should’ve. It meant I was also the copywriter, the production assistant, the social media intern, and occasionally the in-office therapist. My job was supposed to be creating brand kits and campaign visuals. Instead, I got stuck designing fake logos for clients who never paid on time, managing four Instagram accounts, and writing perky product captions for people who sold artisanal deodorant.
I wanted to care. I really did.
But the longer I stayed, the more invisible I felt. So, in a way, quitting was inevitable.
“I think we’ll have six crates total,” Mom says, jolting me back. She lifts one carefully onto the back shelf.
I nod, dropping a dented apple into the reject bin. “The ones I’ve done are good for cider. Maybe the diner’ll take another batch?”
“Maybe.” She sounds tired. Not just physically tired.Seasontired.Yeartired. Life-tired. “Mr. Thomason said they’ll cut back on their order this week. Something about too much inventory.”
“Oh.”
We fall back into silence.
A fly buzzes around my elbow. I swat it away, then glance at the old chalkboard on the wall that still has our family schedule from two seasons ago scrawled on it. Farmer’s Market. Mulchdelivery. School fundraiser. I almost ask if I should clean it off. But I don’t.
“Do you think Dad needs help fixing the irrigation line later?” I ask.
Mom shakes her head. “He’s already out there. You’ll just get in his way.”
I smirk. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re more useful in here. That’s not an insult.”
It doesn’t sting, exactly. But it lands.
I sort three more apples before saying, “I’m not trying to make this permanent.”
“I know.”
“It’s just temporary. Until I figure something out.”
“Ivy.” Mom’s voice softens. “We understand. We love having you home. You don’t have to help with anything. It’s not like we’re busy. You could just rest—and like you said, take some time to figure things out.”
