I wiped my hands on a dish towel. “I fed the goats,” I volunteered. “Made breakfast, too. Biscuits.”

The tang of baking powder and buttermilk hung in the air. I’d used my mother’s recipe, squishing the soft dough between my fingers the way she did, but left her round biscuit cutters in the drawer. I’d cut the dough into squares instead, the way Constanza taught me. “Sin desperdicio,” the garde-manger had said, her gold tooth flashing in a smile. No waste.

My father glanced at the clock. He was already dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like the Duke Divinity student he had been thirty-five years ago. “No breakfast for me, I’m afraid. Services start at nine.”

“Oh. Right,” I said.

It was Sunday. Brunch day in New York, another day of work, a chance to catch up on my blog or sleep or laundry. A week ago, I’d worked the line in the morning and spent the afternoon in bed with Eric.

My father smiled slightly. “You’re an adult, of course. It’s your choice whether you attend services or not. But if you would like to join me . . .”

My heart went all squishy. In his own way, my father cared about me.

“I can be dressed in five minutes,” I promised.

“Take your time,” my father said, with another glance at the clock.

I’d packed in a blur of tears and fury, throwing everything into the battered suitcase I’d taken to college. It took me seven minutes to strip off my barn jeans and dig out a balled-up pair of leggings. I sniffed the armpits of my sweater before dragging it on. Stuffed my feet into my city-girl boots. When I came downstairs, my father was waiting by the door. The biscuits were untouched.

“You should eat something. At least have coffee,” I said.

My father eyed the freshly brewed pot. “One mug, then. Thank you. To go.”

I prided myself that my life was not my mother’s life. But here I was, in my mother’s kitchen, pouring my father’s coffee into a travel mug.

I handed it to him. “How is Mom?”

My father hesitated, as if words were coins and each one cost him. Maybe they did. Maybe my mother’s long illness had beggared him. “She has an infection of the bone—osteomyelitis—which has weakened her back. Quite curable. But she’s having an operation on Friday to strengthen the affected discs and alleviate the pressure on her spine.”

“I know. Meg told me.” No need to mention she’d spilled the beans before I left New York. “How long will she be in the hospital?”

“At least overnight. Then she goes back into rehab for two or three more weeks.”

“So long?”

“She needs to continue on IV antibiotics for six weeks. She could go to a clinic as an outpatient, but it takes several hours to administer all her medication, and travel is difficult for her now. It’s easier to do it there.”