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"Then what the hell is he doing?"

"He told me eighty acres is enough for what he wants to keep. He can run it himself most of the time and use somebody part-time when he needs another set of hands."

I still don't understand. "Why?"

Mom finally stops folding.

"He said he wants to live close enough to be their father, not just somebody who flies in when the calendar works."

Neither of us sits. That lands somewhere I wasn't guarding.

"I hope to God he didn't do that for me."

"I asked him the same thing."

"And?"

"He said, 'She told me where the line is. I'm not crossing it.' Then he went on to say it's about the children."

My throat tightens. Mom picks up another burp cloth.

"He said the babies shouldn't have one parent clear across the country when he has a choice about it."

"Well, isn't that chivalrous of him?" That comes out snarkier than I mean for it to. The jealousy hits before I can stop it, and it embarrasses me that I'm even capable of it. He moved for them, not for me.

"I told him he broke my daughter's heart," Mom says.

"You did not. Mom, please tell me you didn't say that."

"What? I did. It's true. You two are so damn polite. It needed to be said."

"Mom."

"I'm not sorry. He acknowledged it and didn't argue. Doesn't change how things went, but I can tell he wants to do right by those children. Men like that don't come around often."

I ended us because I wouldn't be the reason he lost that ranch. Now he's selling it, anyway. I know what that place cost him to build. I know what it meant every time he said the word home. I can’t make what he has done make sense inside my head.

That night, after the last feeding, I go looking for a hair tie and open the jewelry case instead. The shark tooth necklace is lying exactly where I left it in September, coiled on the velvet.

I pick it up. The leather has gone stiff from sitting, and the tooth is cold. I stand in the dark bedroom and run my thumb along its sharp edge until the point bites.

Thanksgiving is at my house in Holly Ridge, the first holiday I've spent in this town since Dad died. Mom brings the sweet potatoes. I make everything else, and we eat it even though most of mine is mediocre compared to what she makes.

Graham falls asleep against Mom's shoulder before the plates are cleared. My phone stays quiet. Carson calls on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and he didn't ask about Thanksgiving, so I don't expect to hear from him.

I work the day after. The bank doesn't care that my life reorganized itself in a hospital in August. The year-end statement copy needs approving, and then the winter campaign after that.

Today is Saturday, so I hold the phone. Graham grabs at the screen. His sister mostly stares. Carson says her name the same as he always has. Neither of us brings up his purchase or when he's moving. Hell, he could be here, twenty miles down the road, for all I know.

The town strings the lights along Main the Sunday after Thanksgiving. The angel tree goes up in the bank lobby, and I'm the one who has to organize it, because no one else cares enough to make it happen.

My phone buzzes on my desk as I finish tying a big red bow to the top. It’s from Shipley.

You never sent me any pics from Thanksgiving!

I send her a photo of the babies in their turkey outfits Mom got them.

December twelfth is cold but clear, and Mom talks me into the Christmas market.