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Taeli
Mom has a spread fit for a lifestyle magazine on the dining room table when Erin and I arrive.
Jena and Ansley are already in the kitchen, chatting with Mom and Sara-Beth.
“You’re here! Grab a glass. You two have some catching up to do,” Mom squeals as we enter the room.
Erin pours us each a glass of red wine, and I walk over to the stove to see a pot of greens boiling.
“I thought we were baking. What are the greens for?” I ask.
Mom looks over her shoulder at me. “Those aren’t greens. That’s weed. I’m making cannabutter,” she says.
“Canna what?”
“Cannabutter. I use it to make my medicinal candies and brownies,” she explains.
Dear Lord.
“I didn’t realize we were going to be running drugs at the Fourth of July picnic,” I muse.
“It’s not for the picnic. It’s for my personal consumption and a few gift baskets,” she clarifies.
“Okay, but if we get busted, you’re taking the fall,” I tease.
We take our time filling our stomachs and chatting before Mom supplies us all with red or blue aprons and puts us to work.
“Taeli, you start the sugar cookie dough,” she instructs.
“As long as there is no herbal-enhanced butter involved,” I say.
She starts loading the island with everything I need—butter, sugar, flour, et cetera.
“You could use some herbal enhancement, if you ask me. But we’ll keep this batch PG,” she replies.
Erin and Ansley are assigned blondies, Jena gets royal-icing duty, and Mom and Sara-Beth tackle cupcakes.
We spend the next hour mixing ingredients and kneading dough. I use the cookie cutters to cut out the perfect festive patterns—stars, flags, patriotic top hats, and hearts.
We place them in the double oven and pour ourselves more wine. I leave the girls at the table, chatting and picking over the food that’s left, and join Mom and Sara-Beth out on the porch while the cookies and cakes bake.
I sit in the rocker and look out over the yard. The old fort that Daddy built for Gene and me in one of the trees is still standing. The rope ladder swaying in the breeze. It’s the same yet different. No cows are mooing in the distance, and no horses are grazing inside the fence line.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you when Dad died,” I say as I look over to Mom.
She smiles at me. “Oh, honey, you had a life. I didn’t expect you to stop living for me,” she says.
“I should have. Our relationship was always contentious when I was growing up, but I should have been here when you needed me.”
Like she has been here for me.
“You might have been able to keep the farm,” I add.
She laughs. “Oh, kiddo, I had no desire to keep the farm going. That was your father’s passion, and he wanted to leave something for Gene.”
“I can’t believe he just left you like he did.”
She shrugs. “He wanted to live his own life too. I suspect he only stayed around here because he didn’t want to disappoint your father. Running a farm for the rest of his life was never his dream.”
“It must have been hard when he took off.”
“At first, I tried to keep up with everything, and it was scary. Then, I realized I didn’t have to. I called Sara-Beth, and she sent Hilton and Graham out here to survey the land. They helped me parcel it off into four five-acre lots. They found buyers for the livestock. I kept the parcel with the house, my gardens, and barn, and they put the other three on the market. They sold within two weeks. I still have my home, my view of the mountains, all the privacy I need, and the sale gave me a very nice nest egg to live off of.”
“I’m glad you had them,” I say as I reach for Sara-Beth’s hand on the rocker beside me and squeeze. “I just … it was hard to come back here,” I admit.
“That’s because you were a daddy’s girl,” Mom surmises.
I think about that for a minute, and it’s true. My daddy was my rock. The one I could always count on. I thought he was the only one.
“It took losing him for me to see you,” I confess.
“I know, and it’s okay,” she tells me.
“It’s not,” I whisper.
Before I can say more, the timer goes off on the stove. We stand, and I follow them back inside.
