I would like to remember my father.
My father was a good man.
He never harmed a soul.
He never engaged in sinful behaviour with other women.
He never engaged in any sinful behaviour at all.
My father is dead.
Nobody knows how he died, but many people tried to find out. And everyone who tried stopped at some point. The officials noted his death as an accident with the plough. He was checking the way our young assistant was leading the ox, when at some point the assistant went away, but the ox didn't stop and Father ended up being trampled by the ox and cut up by the plough. But of course all the villagers knew the circumstances were too suspicious. Where was the assistant? And why did the ox continue on its own?
Mother was devastated, but refused to have someone investigate Father's death. She said it was too painful. Then in the end a particularly stubborn investigator got through and started to plough through history. The cuts on Father's body, he said, he had seen, and a plough could not have done that. His bones had all been broken, but not in a way the ox could have broken them. He had clearly died a slow and painful death, but not the way everyone thought.
Sadly, the first investigator left quickly.
The next investigator came soon after. He said Father had been trampled by a horse, not an ox, and cut up by knives, and not the plough. At that point Mother couldn't take it anymore and sent him away.
But a new one came. He thought about the circumstances for a while, then suddenly, he was fleeing from the house as fast as his legs could carry him. He was found dead the next day, as he was on his way to the sherriff to tell what he'd learned.
I found out myself later. It was so clear. Somebody had sent away the assistant, then purposefully trampled Father with our only horse, and then cut him up, so it looked like he'd fallen under the plough.
I think it was Mother.