“Not the dishwasher again.” Those were Nona’s last words. Nona didn’t die; she, along with the other wives in the community, took a vow of silence that day.

Henry Farmer’s family had owned a small vegetable stand at the city’s limits for centuries. Franklin, upon following his mother’s advice, had broken the cycle.

Nona sat around all day. Dishes piled up, and laundry was overlooked. “Please, Nona. At least tell me what’s the matter!” Henry pleaded. A pencil scribbled fiercely across a margin in the newspaper. Not until you fix the dishwasher. “But we don’t have a dishwasher!” he cried. Precisely. Nona calmy placed the pencil back on the coffeetable.