“Great. Busy putting things in order.” The words came out of my mouth like I was reading from a script. I really just wanted to put my head on my mother’s shoulder and cry. But I didn’t want her to worry any more than she already was. I pulled the blanket down over my lap and twined my fingers through the crochet holes.

“And Michael, does he like his job?”

“It’s his first day, so I don’t know yet. He said the people at his interview were nice. How’s Dad?”

“Oh, you know. He’s in a state because of the weather. Too much rain and his tomatoes are rotting. He was supposed to go fishing with Bill, but normal people don’t like to sit out on the river in a rainstorm, even though I hear that’s when the fish get frisky. Anyhoo, that’s not why I called.”

Then she stopped, clearly waiting for me to ask, Why did you call, Mom? So I did, clutching one floral crochet square in my hand.

“I was talking to Theresa, you know, down by the florist? She says her sister runs an art gallery there in Sugar Land. I told her you had a PhD in art history and museum experience, and she said you should go right over and introduce yourself.”

My heart started pounding. “I can’t—”

“I know you’re scared, honey. But you can’t let one bad person keep you from going after your dreams. When Molly’s band broke up, she found a new one. And it’s been two years since Charlotte’s divorce, and she’s dating the nicest guy. You’ve got your whole life—”

“Mom, it’s not the same!”

I’d never raised my voice at my parents, not ever. And the shock of it was enough to shut us both up. I could picture my mother holding the phone to her ear, just as I was, while we listened to silence.

And then I was sorry, so sorry. Mom wasn’t wrong. My sisters had suffered setbacks, but they’d kept going. I knew she was trying to help, just like Michael. Everyone wanted to fix my life and make the pain go away. Or maybe, said a mean voice in my head, they just want you to shut up and suck it up.

I am excited about Texas. I will find a new job. I can make a new life.

“What’s the name of the gallery?” My question was an apology. A plea that she wouldn’t give up on me.

“Marville Fine Art Gallery.” And, in my mother’s subdued tone, I could hear that she wasn’t angered by my outburst; she was worried.

“Okay, Mom. Thanks.” I pushed the blanket off my lap and stood.

“Let me know how it works out. Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you too.”