“Thank you, Daddy. Very pretty,” I approved. “Where are your barrettes, baby?”

“I didn’t see any barrettes,” John said.

“They’re sitting right on the dresser.” Along with her socks.

Something tightened in his face. “I don’t do hair.”

“I know. It’s fine.” I was lucky he was trying to help. Not like some fathers. Not like my father. “Thanks, honey. I’ll do it.”

That was me—the mommy who could do it all, the sister who had everything. It wasn’t John’s fault if everything I ever wanted suddenly felt like more than I could handle.

CHAPTER 5

Jo

Our mother stood at the kitchen island, dicing celery and onions for her corn bread dressing with slow, precise cuts.

“Why don’t you sit down, Momma?” Beth asked.

“Can’t,” our mother said.

Because she had too much to do? I wondered. Or because it hurt her back to sit?

Part of me wanted to grab her knife away and show her what I’d learned at Gusto. This, I imagined myself saying proudly, is how you chop an onion. Hearing Chef’s voice, seeing the blur of his knife and hands.

But this was Momma, the real housewife of Harnett County. This was her kitchen. Her stuffing. Despite the pill bottles lining the windowsill, she was still competent. In charge. No matter how many professional techniques I learned in faraway kitchens, at home I was only her sous chef.

Honestly, I didn’t have many memories of cooking with our mother. Meg was the one who helped in the kitchen while I holed up in my room, reading and scribbling. Or spent the time out in the barn. Or off with our father. Before he was deployed—and after, when he got back—he took me with him to serve Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless. “My daughter,” he would introduce me in the line, and I would glow with pride.

But Beth had already tackled the barn chores. And for the first time ever, Dad had gone to the veterans’ center alone—the only acknowledgment from either of our parents that this holiday was not like other years.

“Your mother needs you,” Daddy said as he left.

What about you? I wanted to ask. Doesn’t she need you?

I bit my tongue. The truth was, my mother never seemed to need anybody. For years, she did the work of the farm alone, managed the house and the budget, drove us girls to the doctor’s or to play practice, packed our lunches, cooked our dinner, poured our father’s coffee. Daddy’s job was taking care of others; Mom’s was taking care of us.

I’d always considered myself my father’s daughter.

But maybe in some weird way, he was counting on me, like he used to. “Take care of Momma and your sisters for me,” he would say before he left for the base or Afghanistan. We all had been raised to respect our father’s service. He poured out his life for others. Making a bed or a meal or a home seemed pretty unimportant in comparison.