It was 11:51 p.m. when my family erased me.

The cellar felt colder than usual, a damp chill that seeped through my jacket and settled in my bones. Stainless steel tanks loomed around me in silent rows, humming softly as they held the future of my vineyard in their bellies.

The air was saturated with the sharp, sour-sweet smell of fermenting grapes. continue reading …