Page 51 of Echoes of a Southern Song

I drive to my parents’ house.

My dad is outside digging in the garden like it’s a buried treasure site. The sight makes me smile. I pull up and wave.

“Hey, Jellybean!”

Ugh. The nickname. I used to hate it. Okay, I still hate it. But he says it with such goofy affection that I can’t help but grin.

“Need a hand?” I ask.

He looks up, squinting at me through his smudged glasses. “You? In the garden? How long has it been since you got your hands dirty?”

“Too long,” I reply.

And I mean that in every way. That’s what’s been missing my life these last few months. I need to be grounded in every sense of the word.

He pats a mound of soil. “Come on. I was just getting ready to plant another row of lettuce. I think we’ll have just enough time to harvest it before the snow arrives.”

I kick off my shoes and crouch beside him. “It’s been too long since I’ve done this.”

“It’s in your blood, sweetheart. My green thumb is your green thumb.”

“My green thumb is black. Like the death of every houseplant I’ve ever tried to keep alive.”

He just laughs and shows me how deep to make the holes, how to gently nudge the seedlings in like I’m tucking them in for bed.

I get dirt in my hair. Almost fall into a rose bush. Somehow sit directly on the little rake thing and nearly do some serious damage to my ass.

And my dad is howling the whole time. “Maybe you’re not a gardener,” he says, breathless. “But you’re damn good comic relief.”

“I try,” I mutter, flicking a chunk of dirt at him.

He flicks one back and then we’re basically having a soil war until my mom’s voice calls out from the porch.

“Dinner’s ready! Wash your hands before you come inside!”

“Yes, ma’am,” my dad says.

We head in. The warmth of home wraps around me, chasing away all my fears and concerns. My mom’s made roast chicken with mashed potatoes, green beans, and her famous honey cornbread. It smells amazing.

We eat at the kitchen table, passing dishes and teasing each other, and for a while I can almost pretend I’m not caught in the middle of a legal storm cloud.

My mom looks at me a little too long. She’s got that look that says she’s seeing more than my face. “You seem... off.”

I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” she says gently. “You look tired. And your laugh doesn’t quite reach your eyes.”

I swallow hard. “I’m just worn out. Long week.”

She doesn’t press, bless her heart, but her eyes soften. “You know you can talk to us about anything, right?”

“I know,” I say, smiling as best I can. “Thanks.”

And I do know that.

But I also know that if I tell them what’s happening—about the marriage, the annulment, the trial—they’ll look at me differently. Not with hate or disappointment, but with that soft, sad pity that would break me faster than anger ever could.

So, I stay quiet.