My 8-year-old son started sleeping on the floor outside his grandma’s bedroom — and at 4 a.m., I heard him whisper, “I won’t let Uncle Craig do it to Grandma again.”

I looked at her.

I looked at my son, who was watching her with an expression I can only call worship.

And I realized that something was happening in that sewing room, at 4:30 in the morning, that I did not yet fully understand.

“Wyatt,” Lenora said. “Did Uncle Craig ever say when?”

“He said Saturday.” Wyatt wiped his nose on his sleeve. “He said on Saturday, it’d all be done.”

Grandma’s eyes moved to the calendar on the wall.

Something that was not quite a smile crossed her face.

“Saturday,” she said. “Then we’ll give a dinner.”

“A what?”

“A welcome-home dinner. I haven’t had one.” She reached for her glasses. “Invite everyone. The neighbors. Pastor Joyce. Our whole street. And Carrie?”

“Yes?”

“Call Hank Dwyer first thing in the morning. Tell him the peach cobbler’s in the oven.”

Chapter 3: The Welcome-Home Dinner

By six o’clock on Saturday, my little house smelled like roast chicken, rosemary, and warm bread.