“I got enough for all of us,” Nonny says as we get out and join them. “Fortunately.”

Dad’s face tightens. “Looks nice.” He doesn’t say much else as we gather up the flowers and tools and bring them to Mom’s grave.

I haven’t been here in a while, but I can tell Nonny has, because the gladioluses planted there are freshly weeded and watered. She doesn’t waste time—spreads a cloth, plunks down a foam pad for her knees, and starts digging holes for the fresh plants and bulbs we’ve brought like it’s a mission. Dad has his clippers, and he trims a few overhanging branches from the nearby trees. Pop-Pop starts to sneeze from all the fresh-cut grass, so he walks a few rows over to visit some of his friends who already live here.

I watch Dad and Nonny work for a bit; then the long, smooth pathways that cut through the gravestones start tempting me. Mom wouldn’t have minded me taking advantage of them, so I cut loose a bit.

When I pop a wheelie—just a little one—Nonny fusses at me to stop.

“Have some respect, Emelyn—we’re here to visit your mother, not cut up.”

I bite my lip to stop from pointing out that Mom would have liked seeing how good I’ve gotten at that long-distance wheelie.

“Leave her be, Lula,” Dad says briskly. “She’s not hurting anything. Let her deal with things her way.”

Nonny stabs her trowel into the sandy ground. “She needs to learn respect.”

“She’s not your daughter, Lula.” Dad’s voice is cold and tight. My head whips around—so does Pop-Pop’s—to see them facing off in front of Mom’s headstone, almost stepping on the new flowers.

“No, Alan. She’s yours. You’re her father, not her friend. Sometimes I think you forget.”

“Lula…” Dad’s voice is like a too-tight bungee cord, about to snap.

Nonny doubles down. “Why didn’t you tell me Emelyn had a fall at school? Why did I have to hear about that from Etta Wanamaker at church?”

“What business is it of Etta Wanamaker’s?” Dad’s head might fly off, he looks so mad.

“Her daughter is Emelyn’s new aide.” Nonny shoots her words like an archery champ. “Emelyn’s apparently been making things miserable for her. With poor Etta’s health what it’s been lately, it’s driving Dawn to distraction!”

Distracted from what? I almost ask, but then Nonny’s words make me think about how Dawn’s always so superglued to her phone. I wonder for a guilty second if it’s because her mom’s having more medical problems.

Trust Nonny to pick up gossip and then keep it back for ammunition. I don’t know why Etta Wanamaker shared my business at church, or if Dawn’s actually “driven to distraction” by a couple harmless pranks.

Either way, isn’t this day hard enough already?

I spin a 180 and take off down the path between the gravestones so fast my shoulders burn. It’s twisty, though, and Pop-Pop catches up by cutting through the grass.

“Hold up, Biscuit,” he says quietly. “Let’s you and me take a detour. Let them have it out.”