And I said, “I couldn’t have handpicked a better mother-in-law.”

Even still, my insides burned like fire that my own mother wasn’t there to see this day. All I can do is hope that somewhere, somehow, she is looking down on me. She knows I’m happy. And she knows that, someday, we’ll be together again.

Elizabeth SPUR THEM ON

SOUTHERN MOTHERS MUST MEDDLE. IT is in our DNA. We can’t help it, and, for heaven’s sake, who would want us to? Our meddling makes the world a better place.

In the seventh grade, Liv and I made a pact to have babies at the same time and do everything in our power to get them married.

It had worked out perfectly according to our plan. Almost. Liv had Mason, I had Amelia, and then Liv had Parker. We were certain Mason and Amelia would grow up and fall in love—especially the months they dated, until it all fell apart for my best friend and her son.

There were times we had discussed the possibility of Parker and Amelia, but the three-year age difference, during high school and college, seemed like a hurdle. But now, Greer was dead, Thad was gay, and three years was nothing. What Southern mother worth her sherry wouldn’t try to fix that situation—for the good of her child, of course? Liv and I were only ever thinking of them, which was what our useless husbands didn’t understand when they made us promise to stop meddling. We promised. Just like they promised to quit smoking cigars.

When the kids had left and the men went to smoke and it was just Olivia and me alone at the table, I walked over to her new gold bar cart, grabbed the bourbon, and spilled some into each of our sweet teas. I tried not to be a little jealous of my best friend and all the beautiful updates she’d just done to her home. But I had made a choice. Liv had a newly remodeled home. I had a family estate, a legacy, and while, yes, all of our assets had to be tied up in it, that was the choice I had made.

Lately, I had begun to wonder if it was the right choice. For years, when the kids had been little and my darling husband had been young and strong and energetic, taking care of a massive working farm and a rambling estate hadn’t been too much for us. But now it was.

I had decided to go back to work to help out with Dogwood’s upkeep. It was paid for, of course. But it seemed like every time I turned around, the house needed a new roof or the water heater broke, or squirrels made a mess of the attic insulation, or a storm busted a few windows. But the day I went downtown to sell furniture, the police had come to get me in just four hours to say that Tilley was wandering down the street in a white negligee hollering for Robert. I couldn’t have that. And a caregiver for her would cost the same as I was making. So that was out.