Assured of the rightness of that choice, she pulled into her garage. A slice of her reflection in the rearview mirror caught her eye. With dismay, she saw that her lower lashes were wet. So was the skin beneath her eyes.

Without realizing it, she’d been crying over the choice she’d just proclaimed to be the right one. For some terrible reason that she didn’t want to examine too closely, her heart felt as though it was ripping down the center.

“Leah,” she whispered scoldingly, whisking away the moisture with her fingertips. She patted her cheeks a little harder than necessary, then rolled her carry-on indoors.

Tess and Rudy had left for their Monday night Bible study group, so she found Dylan alone on the sofa watching a ghastly show about monster trucks.

“Brother of mine!” She gestured for him to stand, then hugged him. He was much too thin. Mental note: Feed him more protein, dairy, and fruit. “Did you miss me?”

“Sure.” Which meant no.

“I brought you a gift.” She knelt to her suitcase and came up with a vintage-style T-shirt that read 404—Atlanta’s area code—across the front.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He admired the shirt, then slung it over his shoulder. “Hey, next time you leave . . .”

“Yes?”

“Can I stay by myself?”

She bit her bottom lip to keep herself from exclaiming, Not in a million years!

“I don’t need babysitters.”

“Tess and Rudy aren’t your babysitters—”

“They act like it. They were all over me this weekend.”

“That’s because they care about you.”

“I think it’s because you gave them a long list of all the things I’m not allowed to do.”

“I mean . . . Well. The list wasn’t that long.”

“It’s way too long. It’s crazy.” His curls bounced with agitation. “I’ll be eighteen soon.”

“Yes.”

“Have I done anything to make you think I can’t take care of myself? No. I haven’t.”

He made iffy choices in his social life all the time. He hardly ever studied for tests. He’d eat nothing but Cheez-Its if she let him. “When you were in middle school—”

“That was years ago.” His chin set. She could see that he felt passionately about this and yet was making an effort to talk with her about it maturely. “Next year I’m going to go away to school, and then I’ll have total freedom.”

“Right, and between now and then, my job is to ensure you’re ready.”

“I am ready.”

“You’ve made huge strides.”

“But you don’t let me go to parties. You won’t let me take weekend trips with my friends’ families. You’re always tracking the location of my phone and asking me to come straight home after games and practices. All my friends—every single one—has more freedom than I do. It’s like you don’t trust me.”