Andrew

When Andrew was twelve he delivered his first lamb without me. I was in the byre with another ewe and heard him shout from the field, not in panic, just to tell me. I went over after and the lamb was standing already, which they do quickly when they're going to be alright. Andrew was covered in blood up to his elbows and looked like he'd won something.

He's a vet now. Large animals, which means I see him at work sometimes when he comes out to the farm, and it's a strange thing to watch your child be competent at something you couldn't teach them. He knows things I don't. His hands work differently than mine. I don't tell him that I notice.

He didn't want the farm. I knew that before he did. His father knew it too and said nothing for years, which was its own kind of answer. Andrew told us when he was seventeen, sitting at the kitchen table, and I said good and meant it. Some things you raise and then you let go. That's most things, actually.

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