A rush of affection filled me, along with a familiar sense of inadequacy. Responsible Meg.

Except real people weren’t all one thing, Amy said. Maybe Meg was as mixed up—as full of different strengths and fears, impulses and dreams—as Amy. Maybe she was the responsible one because we didn’t give her a choice. Mini Mom by default.

I started to apologize. Squeezed her hand instead. “We’ll take care of it together.”

Amy took the news of our parents’ separation better than I expected. “It’s weird thinking of them apart,” she said when she got back from the hospital.

“They’ve been apart before,” Meg reminded her. She held out her hands to the twins, playing in the kids’ pasture. “Every time Dad was deployed.”

Daisy and DJ straggled out of the enclosure, muddy and rosy and tired.

“Yeah, but he always came back,” Amy said.

“He’ll come back this time, too,” I said with more certainty than I felt. “He’ll apologize or something.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re his favorite,” Amy said.

“I’m saying it because nobody could actually live with Aunt Phee.”

“I could.” Amy tossed her head when I stared. “What? It’s a big house.”

“She came for Christmas dinner. It was nice,” Meg said.

“But she’s so judgmental.”

“She wasn’t judging us.” Meg’s mouth curved. “She was silently correcting our mistakes.”

Amy snickered, which set us all off.

Sobering, Meg said, “I don’t think Mom will take Dad back.”

“I wonder what he did to piss her off,” Amy said.

I latched the gate carefully behind us. “Besides leaving town while the farm is in debt and she’s recovering from surgery?”

“I think he stopped seeing her,” Meg said quietly.

“He visits her every day.”

“Visited.” Past tense. I winced.

“He visits lots of patients. He prays with them and cries with them and comforts their families. He shows up for perfect strangers. But not for Mom,” Meg said. “Not for us.”

Amy feathered her fingers through her hair. “Then she should have said something to get his attention.”

“She did,” I said.

We all were silent.

“Men suck,” Amy said.

“Not all men,” Meg said.

“All men but John. And Arm-Porn Guy,” Amy added generously. “Unless you’re still mad at him.”

I shrugged as we walked toward the house, trying to shake off my discomfort. “I’m not mad. I’m grateful. I figured when I changed the content—when I posted that Christmas story—it would turn off a lot of readers. And instead, they’re more engaged. And I’ve got a lot more of them. Which is good, right? Only my blog’s not all about me anymore. It’s about us. Me and Eric. It’s . . . weird.”

“Oh my God, you poor baby. People are reading your blog. What a disaster,” Amy said.

I smiled reluctantly.

Meg hugged me. “So Eric’s been a help. I know you don’t like relying on other people. But it’s okay to accept a little help sometimes.”