It happens.”

“Your brothers would have never shouted at me, or slammed a door in my face.”

I throw up my hands. “You’re right. My brothers wouldn’t have talked back to you, not with Pop around. But my boys’ dad isn’t around, and I have a different relationship with them than you had with Brick, Blue, and Cody. I want my kids to talk to me—”

“Talk back, you mean.”

I never fight like this, never raise my voice, and I hate that I feel so out of control now. “I’ve never been able to please you. Nothing I do is right.” My eyes burn, but there are no tears. I haven’t cried since last December, when I discovered John wanted out. I couldn’t even cry at Cody’s funeral. “But I’m not useless, Mama. I’m smart and strong, and I’m going to get my boys through. You just watch me.”

I’m saying the right things but I’ve used the wrong tone of voice, and my mother’s lips press tight. She’s not hearing anything I’m saying, only the way I’m saying it.

Mama, Louisiana born and educated, is a true southern mama, and she throws back her shoulders. “God doesn’t like your tone, Shey Lynne.”

That’s when I give up—arguing, that is. She’s going to win this one. But then she always wins. I don’t know how to fight with my mother. “No, He might not, but maybe today when you go to church you could remind Him that I’m doing the best I can considering the hand I’ve been dealt.”

With the faintest shake of her head, she marches out of the kitchen, back stiff, silvery blond head high, down the paneled hallway for the front door, where my brother Brick is probably waiting to take her to church.

I lean my weight against the counter, eyes tightly closed as I gulp a breath, and then another.

This is not the life I wanted.

This is not the life I planned.

But this is now the life I have, and I’m going to make it work, so help me God, I am.

Eyes still closed, I hear the front door open with a squeak and then shut. Mama’s gone. I exhale, and sagging with relief, I reach for the waffle batter.

Ladling the buttermilk batter onto the sizzling iron, I hear an engine and see a flash of blue as Brick’s Chevy passes on the way down the drive.

Thank God she’s gone. And thank God for Brick. Firstborn, eldest son, he’s always done his best to take care of Mama. But I know it’s not easy. He hates going to church. He goes only because it makes her happy, and when she’s in Jefferson at my grandmother’s, he doesn’t attend.

A few moments later, Cooper, my youngest, slinks into the kitchen, shoulders hunched. He’s only twelve but already five ten, and it’s a body he can’t quite figure out. “Gramma gone?” he asks, still in the rust-colored T-shirt and jeans he wore during his morning ride.

“Yeah.” I rescue the bacon from the frying pan and line up the pieces to drain on a stack of paper towels. “What do you want to drink for breakfast, milk or juice?”

“Juice.”

“Then go ahead and pour it, and call your brothers to the table. Breakfast is almost ready.”

He fills his glass with orange juice and drains half before even bothering to shut the refrigerator door. “Gramma doesn’t like us much, does she.”

I’m pulling off the first waffle and am about to ladle more batter onto the griddle when I hear him.