There was still corn to sort.
The kids were still there.
My parents had spent the day doing exactly what family was supposed to do when work needed doing: they showed up, divided the load, passed around water and sandwiches, and kept moving.
No performance.
No hotel.
No secret card.
My husband followed my gaze toward the kids and lowered his voice.
“Can we please go somewhere else and talk?”
It was almost the same request he had made when he arrived.
Privately.
He wanted privacy now because privacy gave him room to separate people.
With me alone, he could make the argument about marriage.
With his mother alone, he could make it about helping family.
With his sister, he could make it about convenience.
But the card in my hand connected all three versions.
I looked at his mother.
“Did you know the account was in my name?”
“No.”
