“Forty dollars for the afternoon,” Dale said, resting his hand on the red log splitter my late husband had bought six years earlier. Jim had been gone six months, and now his own brother was charging me to use our equipment.

My name is Becky Thorson. After Jim died suddenly, I worked overtime delivering propane to support our sixteen-year-old son, Cole. We needed firewood for winter, so I swallowed my anger, paid Dale, and asked for a receipt. Cole was furious, but I told him we needed wood more than an argument.

While splitting oak, we discovered Jim’s handwritten maintenance notes on the machine. Later, I found his old list of three widows he’d supplied with free firewood every winter. Determined to continue his kindness, Cole and I delivered a cord to each woman.

On Monday, I posted a notice at the feed store offering free firewood. Beside it, I pinned Dale’s receipt, which described my own husband’s machine as rented equipment. I wrote no accusations, but everyone understood what had happened. By Wednesday, the whole community was talking.

On Saturday, Mrs. Hartmann, an elderly former teacher, accompanied me to Dale’s workshop. She reminded him that Jim had helped people without expecting anything back. Finally, Dale admitted Jim had owed him $600 for a truck repair. Unable to ask a grieving widow for repayment, he’d taken the splitter and invented the rental fee.

I was still hurt, but I understood the truth. Jim had intended to repay his brother. I retrieved $600 from the cash Jim had earned selling firewood and settled the debt. Dale returned my forty dollars, apologized, and helped hitch the splitter back to my truck.

The following weekend, Dale arrived with his chainsaw. Together, he, Cole, and I split enough oak for our winter and several neighbors. Slowly, the bitterness between them faded, replaced by shared work and memories of Jim.

A year later, I renewed Jim’s list on the shed wall. Beneath the widows’ names, I added one line: “Dale brings the saw.” Outside, the splitter roared, oak cracked, and for the first time since Jim’s death, our family’s work felt whole again.