Jim's land," she said.
Mom and her brother had each inherited half of the West Texas land that
had been owned by their father. The whole time we kids were growing
up, Mom had been mysteriously vague about how big and how valuable
this land was, but I had the impression that it was a few hundred acres of
more or less uninhabitable desert, miles from any road.
"We need to keep that land in the family," Mom told me. "It's important
for sentimental reasons."
"Let's see if we can buy it, then," I said. "How much will it cost?"
"You can borrow the money from Eric now that he's your husband,"
Mom said.
"I've got a little money," I said. "How much will it cost?" I'd read
somewhere that off-road land in parched West Texas sold for as little as
a hundred dollars an acre.
"You can borrow from Eric," Mom said again.
"Well, how much?"
"A million dollars."
"What?"
"A million dollars."
"But Uncle Jim's land is the same size as your land," I said. I was
speaking slowly, because I wanted to make sure I understood the
implications of what Mom had just told me. "You each inherited half of
Grandpa Smith's land."