My four-year-old daughter screamed and clung to the doorframe as my mother-in-law came to take her to the farm. She ordinarily adored Tuesdays, yet I kept her home. Forty minutes after Ruth drove away alone, a state trooper called about a collision—and inquired who else knew my little girl was supposed to be in that car…
Nora grabbed the front doorframe with both hands as I tried to take her down the porch steps. Her knuckles whitened; her screams made me stop.
“No, Mommy. No. I don’t want to go.”
Below us, Ruth, my mother-in-law, waited beside her white CR-V. Its back door stood open beside Nora’s car seat; Ruth held her favorite little cheddar-fish crackers.
“Come on, sweet pea,” she said. “The chickens are waiting. Mabel laid two eggs yesterday.”
Normally, Mabel’s name ended any argument about leaving. Nora adored Ruth’s farm near Morgantown, collecting eggs and bringing home pocketfuls of things best left outside. She discussed the chickens all week.
