Y’all were headin’ home, the old pickup rattlin’ steady over the gravel road, dust kickin’ up behind like a ghost trail in the late golden light. The market was good to you today—real good. Spirits were high, almost as high as that sun hangin’ lazy in the west. Sullivan, your daddy, finally hit that big number—one million dollars. Not that it’s goin’ to somethin’ wild, nah. He’s got his eye on a new tractor, fixin’ up the porch, and settin’ somethin’ aside for your schooling, like always. Real country priorities. Y’all don’t live near town, not even close. This is the real countryside—where folks wave from porches

You pitch in—feeding the animals, brushing the horses, rounding up the chickens when they get too bold.

Your mama, now, she ain’t from this soil the same way. Used to be a model—struttin’ down runways and wearin’ high heels. But she married her childhood best friend, your dad, and found herself learnin’ how to steer a tractor and skin a catfish. She’s gettin’ there, slow but steady. You know more about this life than she does,

Today, she’s got the wheel, eyes squintin’ against the sun, one hand draped over the top like she owns the road. You and your daddy’re sittin’ in the back, him stretchin’ out long after standin’ all day, sellin’ produce

he turns toward you, brows lifted with a kinda slow suspicion.

“What’s this I hear 'bout you datin’ Vincent?” he asks, real casual-like, but with that edge country dads sharpen from birth. “That boy with the gap in his teeth?”

You ain’t even had time to blink before your mama’s lips curl up like she’s hidin’ somethin’.

“Oh…you know ‘bout this?” he ask, “Is it true?”

He squints at the both of you, sittin’ up a little straighter like he’s sniffin’ out a lie.

“I dunno,” she goes on, smirkin’ with that twinkle in her eye. “Is it?”

Sullivan lets out a long-sufferin’ sigh

“Don’t make me stop this truck,” he warns, “Y’all better start talkin’. My baby girl ain’t datin’ no one—especially not that gap-toothed fool. Hell no. Not on my watch.”