Megan was up early to make French toast for the family, sparing her father the job that usually fell to him. The talk around the breakfast table had revolved around something new. Daniel was pushing to study for his driver’s license, insisting that he be allowed to try, at least. If he could pass the written test and learn to drive, he could use his savings from work to buy a small used car.

The discussion was still going on between Daniel and his father when they left—Daniel to be dropped off at Shop Mart on the way to the high school. Megan and her mother were left alone to visit and catch up.

“I’m worried about Daniel trying to drive.” Megan’s mother had multiple sclerosis and relied on a wheelchair to get around the house. But she’d insisted on helping Megan clear the table and load the dishwasher. “I mean, what if he can’t pass the written test or learn to handle a car. He’ll be devastated. Or worse, what if he passes, gets a car, and gets in an accident?”

“He deserves the chance to try.” Megan took her brother’s side. “People with Down syndrome do drive. I’ve seen them in Nashville. And Daniel’s smart. He did well in that special school he went to. He might need help studying for the test and practicing with a car, but if he could do it . . .” Megan paused to wipe the counter with a towel. “He’s twenty-four years old, Mom. He wants to be independent. He wants to be a man.”

“What he wants is to get married,” Dorcas said. “And if he learns to drive, that’ll be next. Katy is a little doll. We love her, and I know how happy she makes him. But they’re like children. Why can’t they just be friends?”

Megan sighed. Her mother had always been protective of Daniel. Convincing her to let go was going to take time. And it wouldn’t happen this morning. She closed the dishwasher and switched it on. “What have you painted since I was here last? I’d love to see your new pieces.”

Dorcas smiled. “I’ve been busy. Come and look.”

Megan followed her mother into what had once been the dining room. With its north-facing window that gave perfect light for painting, and sliding doors for privacy, it had been converted to an art studio. As always, the small area was cluttered with easels, brushes, tubes of paint, palettes, and packets of expensive art paper. A long table was covered with sketches and finished pictures.