“You’ll live on the ranch over my dead body.” Mom glances at her phone, which sits screen-up beside her silverware. “That place will chew you up and spit you out. I had to go through hell there, and I won’t see you go through it too.” I frown. “I just wish I understood why Dad wants me there so badly.” “Lord forgive me for speaking ill of the dead again”—Mom glances around, like Jesus might be eavesdropping at a nearby table—“but nothing could drag your father away from the ranch. I’m not surprised he wants to drag you there too.”
