Maybe Daryl wasn’t the only person she was running from.

Lady Antebellum blasted, and Sara sang along in front of the mirror into the hairbrush in her hand. Lynn’s daughter didn’t know she was being watched, but she probably wouldn’t have minded if she had known. The song was coming from the tiny radio that she’d bought at a dollar store, and while it didn’t have the best sound, the pink AM/FM radio certainly had the best spirit.

It was an adorable sight that filled Lynn with both delight and despair.

The kinky blond hair and swaying hips and feisty spirit could have been her twenty-some years ago when she was that age, singing to the sweet sounds of Patty Loveless.

“Mom!” Sara looked at her, her hands on her hips.

“Don’t stop for me.” She walked into the tiny room and slipped in between the bed and the mirror. “Come on!” Lynn said, taking her hands to join in the fun.

For the next few minutes they danced and sang to several songs. They were laughing so hard that Lynn forgot for a moment where they were. The bed groaned behind them when they bumped into it.

It was only when a head popped in at the open doorway that they stopped.

Thomas was looking in, shaking his head.

When he left, they kept dancing.

Lynn could never tell her daughter the dreams she’d had when she was Sara’s age. Back then she’d felt limitless and light, just like this music. Lynn had always been able to sing. But she never had an American Idol to audition for. She never had parents to encourage her.

Lynn smiled. “You’re getting good.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She held Sara’s hands and somewhere deep down she made another promise to herself. My children are going to have more opportunities than I had. And it doesn’t start with a full checking account or a full pantry but with a full heart.

Chance Encounter

Kevin always wanted to sing songs, the memorable kind that told stories. The stories of dusty roads and dirty saloons. Did the world even have saloons anymore? Songs that spun tales of Texans who liked to spit and Mexicans who liked to barter and Coloradoans who still searched for gold. He would play his guitar and sing in the smoky dim light.

But it was the afternoon after another busy day of work and all Kevin could do was turn up the stereo in his car. All he could do was hum to the latest song on his favorite station that jammed classic and contemporary country music. All he could do was drive on suburban roads in nice cutout neighborhoods with nice cutout lives. Sometimes when he was driving in the country and the windows were shut in his car, or he was in his house when it was just him, he’d crank Alan Jackson and he’d mimic playing the guitar and sing and live just a little. Nobody needed to see him. Nobody needed to know how ridiculous he looked.