I hear the screen door open and shut, then the thump of work boots against the wooden hallway floors. After a 10-hour day, my father has come in from the fields to help my mom cook dinner. He’s wearing his typical uniform—a dirty, hole-covered T-shirt and old jeans. He tells us that he spent his day putting in fence posts, baling hay, and checking on the cows to see if any have gone into labor. One might not guess that my dad is successful, given the way he presents himself.