I ride my Sportster to work now. My father eats dinner with me three nights a week. On Sundays he makes pancakes the way Mama used to, flipping them too high, making me laugh every time.
My mother’s ring is on my right hand. Logan’s ring is in a drawer. I haven’t called him yet. I don’t know if I ever will.
Last week, Dad pulled over at a scenic overlook we used to stop at when I was little. We sat on the guardrail watching the sun go down.
“You think Mama would be mad at me?” I asked. “For what I did?”
He thought about it.
“Nah. She’d be proud of you for coming home.”
“Even after everything?”
“Especially after. Anybody can love their people when it’s easy, baby girl. Comin’ back when you’ve been wrong, that takes a different kind of heart.”
He put his rough hand on top of mine. My mother’s gold band caught the last of the light.
“Your mama always said you had that kind of heart. Just took you a while to find it.”
