I asked what he wanted.

Her next words stunned me.

“I don’t know. But he’s crying.”

My name is Becky Lindahl. I’m thirty-four, married, and raising two children in a small Wisconsin town.

For six years, I worked at Heckert Auto & Diesel, a repair shop owned by Dale Heckert.

I handled the parts counter, ordered supplies, answered customer calls, and kept track of inventory.

It wasn’t glamorous, but I was good at my job.

Dale was a demanding employer who rarely offered compliments. He expected everyone to work hard and didn’t believe in offering many benefits.

When a position opened at the local farmers’ cooperative, I applied.

The salary was similar, but the new job included health insurance for my family.

That mattered enormously.