But now she was struggling to sit up. She looked at my father. “How much did you withdraw?”

“Abby . . .” He pulled back his hand, folding his long fingers together. “This is hardly the time or place for this discussion.”

“Then, when? If I weren’t sick, you’d never talk to me at all.” She sounded like Granny.

My mouth jarred open. I’d never heard my mother use that tone with my father before. Never heard her breathe a word of criticism.

“I had expenses,” my father said.

“Household expenses,” my mother said. “Farm expenses.”

He drew himself up. “Critical commitments. There are others in need, especially at this time of year, men and women who have sacrificed everything for their country. My obligation to them doesn’t go away simply because you have a temporary setback.”

“We can’t keep funding the ministry if it means losing the farm,” my mother said. “Our home.”

“What setback?” I asked.

“Your family’s home,” my father said to my mother. “Your parents never made me feel particularly welcome there. I never understood your decision to go back.”

“After you went into the army, after you gave up your living and the parsonage without consulting me, where were we supposed to live?”

“You could have moved to Oak Hill.”

“I’m not taking charity from your aunt.”

“On base, then. The Lord always provides a way for those who do His work. But you had to do things your way.”

This was awful. “What setback?” I repeated.

My father spared me a glance. “Your mother can’t do her rehab.” He made it sound like that was her fault. “Without some improvement, they’ll have to move her to a nursing home. So the doctors have decided—and we concur—that she needs surgery.”

“Oh, Momma, no. What kind of surgery?”

“I’ll be fine,” my mother said. As if I had to be protected from too much information, like Daisy or DJ. Or Dad. “A couple of my vertebrae are compressed a little, that’s all. So Dr. Chatworth is going to go in and stabilize things.”

“Deteriorated from the infection,” my father said. As if he were punishing me for coming into my mother’s room, worrying her about money. That was okay. He couldn’t blame me more than I blamed myself. “They have to remove the infected bone and put some kind of a cage in her spine.”

“Oh my God,” I said. A prayer, not a curse. “When?”

My mother made a face, twisting position in bed. I couldn’t tell if she were struggling to get comfortable or avoiding my question.

“As soon as they can schedule the surgery with the hospital,” my father said.

I swallowed. “I’ll call the girls.”

My mother’s head moved back and forth against her pillow. No.

“Momma . . . They might want to be here.”

“No,” she said. “No fuss. They have their own lives. I don’t want them coming home for me.”

I looked at my father, hoping for reinforcements.