“Um.” I fought to wake up. “Friday. Right.”

“I want to be there.” Beth’s voice was thin and determined.

Yes.

No.

“Hang on, I have to pee, okay?” I threw back the quilt, using the pause to collect myself.

Our father was right. I needed to learn to think before I spoke. The right word—or the wrong one—would bring Beth flying home. But this once, I couldn’t be selfish. Couldn’t think about what I wanted. Now that Beth had finally left the nest, I couldn’t be the one to clip her wings.

I splashed water in the sink. “Beth. Sweetie. You know I’d love to see you. But it’s not necessary, really. Mom’s going straight from the hospital right back into rehab. She has all kinds of people taking care of her. There’s no reason for you to come home.”

“What if something happens?”

My stomach hollowed. “Nothing’s going to happen,” I said firmly. “Mom’s going to be fine.”

“I still want to be there for her operation.”

I looked around for a towel. “But what about your show?”

“I’ll quit.”

“You can’t quit.” I dried my hands on my shirt.

“You did.”

I opened my mouth. Shut it. “That’s different,” I said. “I’m doing what Daddy told me to do.” Every time he went to war. “Take care of Momma and your sisters for me . . .”

“Sorry,” Beth said humbly. “I didn’t mean . . .”

I cleared my throat. “No. No, it’s okay.”

Crap. I’d always presented my best self to Beth, fearless and reassuring. To protect her, I told myself. Or to protect my pride. Like a hedgehog, showing off its spines. But that wasn’t what she needed from me now. If I wanted her to stay in Branson, I had to tell the truth.

“Bethie, I came home because . . . Well, because I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“What are you talking about? You have your cooking. Your writing. Your blog.”

“Cooking was never more than a side gig to pay the bills. And I’m having trouble with the blog.”

“Oh no.” Her sympathy was warm and immediate, flowing over the connection. “I love your blog. I feel so much closer, reading your posts. Sometimes it’s like I’m right there with you in New York.”

My sisters were the best. I’d always thought of my writing as separate from my family, something I did in isolation. And all along they’d been right there with me, reading and supporting me. “Thanks, Mouse.”

“And I’m not your only fan,” Beth said. “Look at all the comments you got on your last post.”

“Not me,” I said. “Chef.”

“Is that your boss?”

I nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see. “Eric. Yeah.”

“He has amazing arms.”

“You should see the rest of him.”

Beth giggled, sounding about six years old. I grinned in triumph. “So, what’s the problem?” she asked.

My smile faded. “He’s not such a fan.”

“Of your blog? What doesn’t he like about it?”