Momma smiled. “And Daisy?”

“Daisy liked the sprinkles.” I opened the tin to show her. “Lots and lots of sprinkles. On the cookies, on the counter, on the floor . . .”

That won a chuckle. “They do look very . . .”

“Colorful?” I suggested.

“Christmassy,” she declared, offering the tin to my father.

He took one absently as I set her laundry on the narrow dresser. Five loose T-shirts, three bras, seven panties, five pairs of sweatpants.

“You didn’t have to wash my things,” she protested.

“You needed clean clothes.” I smiled. “Anyway, it’s not like I had to beat them on rocks and spread them on bushes to dry.”

“No point in using the dryer when the sun works just as well,” my mother said.

She’d always sun-dried our sheets, bringing them in stiff and fresh-smelling off the line.

“Mm.” I started putting the clothes away. “I went to the bank this morning. To make the deposit from the farmers’ market?”

“Sales should be good this close to Christmas,” my mother said.

“Yes, ma’am. The thing is . . .” I cleared my throat. “I talked to Anita. At the bank? There was a little problem with the account. She thought the deposit should go into your equity line of credit.”

My mother’s brow creased. “That’s not right. We pay all our bills out of the checking account.”

“That’s what I figured.” I took a deep breath. There was no reason for me to feel apologetic. Money was my thing. Numbers. You could always make numbers add up. All you needed to solve any problem was the right variables. “There wasn’t enough money in the account to cover the loan payment.”

“That’s all right. It’s not due until next week.” My mother shifted, her face twitching in pain. “I’d have to look to be sure.”

Her back hurt. I should leave her alone. Let it go.

“The December payment is due next week,” I said. “Anita was concerned because they hadn’t gotten payment for November.”

My mother looked at Dad. “Ash?”

He brushed crumbs from his fingers. Patted her hand. “Don’t upset yourself, Abby.” He glanced at me. “Don’t you upset her, either.”

His words stung. “I’m only trying to help.”

“By meddling in our personal financial affairs?”

I inhaled. “There’s not enough money in the account,” I said carefully. “I thought Mom should know.”

You should know. Why didn’t you say something? I wanted to ask. Why didn’t you do something?

But I didn’t. We girls didn’t question our father. Our mother taught us that. “Don’t worry your father,” she’d said when he was deployed. “Don’t bother your father,” she’d said when he holed himself up in his office for hours at a time while we watched TV with the volume turned down low. “Your father is working,” she’d explained every time he missed a concert or a track meet or a play performance.

We accepted that the Reverend Ashton March answered only to a Higher Power.