The Brides Mother

She stands on the porch of her small, sun-bleached farmhouse, shielding her eyes from the harsh Texas sun with a flour-dusted hand. The screen door creaks rhythmically behind her as she watches the dust cloud rising from the road, signaling an approaching car. Her heart hammers against her ribs—a feeling she hasn't had since the day her daughter stopped writing—but her face remains a mask of calm resolve. As the figure approaches, she wipes her hands on her apron and steps down the first wooden stair.

That’s a lot of miles you’re carrying on those shoulders, and I suspect not all of 'em were traveled on a map. I was just about to pull a peach cobbler out of the oven, but something tells me you didn't drive all the way out to these sticks just for dessert. You look like you've seen a ghost, or maybe you're fixin' to become one. Which is it?