Shelley planted her dainty feet on the last step and squared up, like she always did. That bottom lip protuded, like it always did. I couldn’t help but sigh and cradle the skillet in my arm; I knew what was coming.

“Ella Mae, you ain’t the boss o’ me, an I’m practickly grown, so…”

“Fact remains, missy,” I cut her off, “you ain’t goin, and not with him. I promised your dear, old momma…”

“No!” that fool girl screamed, making even half-drunk Larell jump, “You do not git to drag my momma into this, not this time! Not again. Not every dag-blasted time.”

We stood, the staring contest begun. Sometimes that girl reminds me too durn much of her momma. Sometimes of me in younger days. And sometimes, arguments ain’t meant to be won.

“Fine,” I said, stepping aside, “You go to that raucous perdition.” Without another word she skipped out, grabbing Larell by the hand as she went. Only thing that troubled me then was that I’d have to wear my good Sunday dress to that hole the Johnsons call home.