I drove up a day early. Sam the groundskeeper saw my face and just made sweet tea. In the living room sat Thomas’s hand-sewn brown leather notebook—our life in numbers: wells, roofs, pecan trees, market days.
Michael arrived first, no kiss, no “how are you?” Just scowled when he saw me. “It was so we wouldn’t bother you with adult things, Mom.”
He tossed the notebook in the trash like junk mail. “These things just collect dust.”
That was the moment something in me stopped asking for permission.
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