“You know I don’t make the boys go to church. If they want to go, great. If they don’t, fine. It’s their choice.”

But my mother, the daughter of a Southern Baptist preacher, fixes her cool blue gaze on me in silent rebuke. “If you went to church, then maybe they’d go.”

The grease splatter burns, and I press my hand against my side. I don’t want to argue with her, not today, not after the fight my son Bo and I had last night. “I know it shocks you, Mama, but I haven’t gone since you sent me away to St. Pious to finish high school—”

“Then I failed you, Shey Lynne.”

I shake my head. My mother can do guilt like no other. “You didn’t fail me, and God’s not going to blame you for whatever mistakes I make. But I’d be a hypocrite to make the kids go to church now when it’s something I don’t even do.”

“I’d call it being a good role model. Your boys could use some religion along with some serious attitude adjustment.”

I grit my teeth to keep from saying something I might regret. I love my mother, I really do, and I appreciate everything she’s done for us since we moved back home after Cody’s funeral last June—loaning us her house here in Parkfield, giving me Pop’s old truck. But I’m not a kid anymore, I’m a woman with children of my own, and I’m going to raise my kids my way.

Mama sees my silence as a chance to press her case. “The Bible commands us to come together and worship—”

“I know what the Bible says!” Impatiently, I turn the heat down beneath the cast-iron skillet before reaching for the chipped ceramic bowl with the waffle batter. “I grew up going to church every Sunday and youth group every Tuesday night and Bible camp every summer. That’s how you raised all of us, but John and I chose to raise our boys differently—”

“And maybe that’s why you’re in this mess, Shey Lynne. Maybe that’s why your boys are out of control.”

Oh, those are fighting words. They are. I face her, bowl clutched to my middle, one hand on my hip. “They’re not out of control!”

“I’ve been here a week, Shey Lynne. I’ve heard plenty.”

It hurts biting my tongue this hard, but I do it for the sake of peace, as well as the preservation of my sanity. It’s been a rough year. It pretty much broke my heart, but things will improve, things are improving. “Mama, go to church. Brick and Charlotte will be here any minute. You’ll feel better once you’re out of the house and heading to the service, and frankly, I’ll feel better, too—”

“Shey Lynn!”

Great. I’ve offended her and wounded her.

I set down the bowl, but I don’t go to her. We’re not a touchy-feely kind of family. Stiff upper lip.