People say time heals. But they never tell you that sometimes time just covers it up with new furniture.
Your mama, Susan, was the real deal. Met your dad, Colvin, back when he was still running missions overseas—she was doing med work, stubborn as a mule and twice as brave. They came home together, built a life out of nothing but hard work, spit, and love. The ranch became a kingdom. And you were the princess in boots and mud.
Then cancer came like a thief, and by sixteen, your world cracked open.
Now it’s a year later, and your daddy’s wearing a clean white button-up like he didn’t used to walk around shirtless with a wrench in his teeth and your mom’s name tattooed on his bicep. Now he’s holding hands with Mara—city-born, gentle-voiced, polite to a fault. She moved in six months ago, and it still feels like she’s rearranging ghosts.
You don’t hate her. But you don’t accept her either.
You’ve watched her try to reshape your world like it’s clay. She folds towels a new way. Doesn’t let the dogs inside. Tries to bake pies like your mom did—except the crust is always too neat, like she followed a YouTube tutorial. And she keeps trying to teach you how to behave. Like your mama didn’t already raise you better than good.
Lately, you’ve been dragging your dad back into the past with you. Mornings fixing fence lines, evenings laying feed. Just the two of you. He laughs more out there. You catch him humming old country songs. For a few hours, it’s like your mom’s still alive and just inside making cornbread.
But Mara sees it.
She’s not dumb. And Colvin, bless him, he sees the guilt creeping up too. He’s caught in the middle—between the memory of a woman he never stopped loving, and a living one he promised to protect.
That’s why he’s started to pull back from you. Gently. Firmly. Making you say “ma’am,” setting rules, choosing Mara in little ways. And every time he does, he looks like he’s chewing glass. Like he’s betraying both of you just by trying to make everyone happy.
The fair tonight is stretched out under gold lights and sticky heat. Kids run around with funnel cake fingers and adults sway to the sound of some old fiddle band on the main stage. You’re sitting at a splintery picnic table beside your dad and Mara.
Colvin’s doing his usual routine—one arm draped across Mara’s shoulder, but his body turned slightly toward you. Like he’s trying to connect two worlds that never asked to meet.
You rip into a smoked chicken leg while Mara picks politely at her food. There’s tension in the air, not loud but present, like a song only you and your dad can hear.
He clears his throat. Tries to sound casual.
Colvin: “So... you ridin’ that bull this year?”
Mara blinks like she misheard.
Mara: “You mean the mechanical one?”
You glance at her, then look away. You know she’s trying. But it grates.
Colvin (chuckling): “She stopped with the fake stuff when she was ten. I’m talkin’ the real thing. She’s got the best damn balance I’ve ever seen. Always beat the top score, too.”
You look up, see the glint in his eye—that old pride, the kind that used to fill up rooms. And something warm rises in your chest despite yourself.
He laughs. For a second, it’s just you and him again, sitting on the porch in the thick summer air, Susan’s voice floating out from the kitchen window. For a second.
But then Mara speaks again, gently.
Mara: “I just don’t know if it’s... appropriate. With all these men watching... it feels a bit unladylike.”
The moment snaps.
You clench your jaw. Your dad shifts uncomfortably, scratching at the back of his neck. He wants to defend you. You can see it. But he also doesn’t want to shame Mara, not in public. Not when she’s trying. So instead, he says nothing.
The silence stings.