Edith Foster was the poster child for hippie living. Her golden-brown eyes held a glassy appearance most of the time, but she was never high on anything other than life. Free-spirited, she didn’t care that a new decade had arrived that was adamant about more being more. Bigger, brighter everything. Not Mama. Nope. She continued parting her long blonde hair down the middle, forgoing the thickly applied makeup and big bangs that were trending. She always tuned the radio to the easy listening songs from the sixties and seventies instead of the hip-hop and new wave sounds taking over the airways.

She and Pa said I was the spitting image of her, minus that dreamy expression and contented smile. On the cusp of teenage-hood, my only expressive setting seemed to be stuck on a guarded pout. I was full-on pouting at the moment as she spoke in that delicate voice laced with whimsy. She was propped up in her and Pa’s bed, looking like a flower-child queen as she adjusted the daisy behind her ear that Charlotte had given her earlier.

“Austin, it’s a beautiful rite of passage as a woman.” Mama wrapped her hand around my wrist, trying to pull me into a conversation I wanted no part of. My gaze dropped to the mood ring on her index finger and I saw that the stone was blue. It was always blue. I recalled teasing her once that the thing was a joke and held no other color besides blue, so she insisted I put it on. I did and the color instantly turned as black as coal.

“Mama —”

“It’s your body’s natural process of preparing to —”

“Mama!” I tried pulling away from her, but there was no give to getting away from my spot on the edge of her bed.

“I’m serious. Any day now your flower —”

“Why do we gotta talk about something that ain’t even happened yet?”

“To be prepared.” She finally let go and resettled on the bed, nestling in a pile of fluffy blankets and pillows. It looked like the bed was swallowing her up, except for the giant ball that was her belly.

“Please, Mama. I’m so grossed out right now.” My shoulders shuddered.

She giggled, finding way too much amusement in my discomfort. “I can’t wait to see you with your own young’uns. You know that saying about your children being ten times worse than you were as a child.”

An obnoxious snort slipped out as I scanned the dresser top. It held enough picture frames to cause an avalanche if someone stomped by it hard enough. “Well, I ain’t having no young’uns, so there’s nothing to worry about.” I glanced at her just in time to see the smile slip slightly from her face.

“Why not?”