He was hyperaware of the dilapidated farm buildings and the shabbiness of the main house. Jayme picked her way carefully over the uneven cobblestones in the yard. When they reached the back door, her brow creased in confusion. “Why aren’t we using the front door?” “The front is only for uninvited visitors. We always use the back entrance.” “Why?” “It’s a farm tradition. Avoids filthy boots trekking through the house.” He shoved door open and led her through the tiny mudroom toward the kitchen. Inside Ma was sitting at the battered old kitchen table, a pen behind her ear and a newspaper in her hand. For as long as he could remember, her midmorning ritual involved a mug of steaming tea and the daily crossword. The illness had turned her complexion gray and waxy, but she looked well, all things considered. His youngest sister, Sharon, sat opposite their mother, bleary-eyed and slouched over a mug of coffee.
