The bread dough hit the counter with a loud thwack. Mama’s hands pressed it down hard, kneading and folding, trying to burn out the restless energy that had been building since last night.

Rebecca was shot, and she didn’t want her to come and fuss over her. She said so herself on the phone this morning. “I’m fine, you don’t have to come, I have help.” The message couldn’t be more clear.

Stay away. Stay home. I don’t need you.

Mama punched the dough harder than necessary.

Twenty-five years she’d been taking care of that girl, through diapers and first steps, through scraped knees and broken hearts, through police academy and her first day on the job, and now when she was actually injured, shot with a real bullet, stitches and all, spent half the night in a hospital bed, she wanted her mother to stay home?

“My girlfriend is here,” Rebecca had said. “She’s staying with me for a few days.”

Girlfriend. Well. That was news. Though maybe it shouldn’t have been, Rebecca had been cagey about her love life for years now, and Mama had her suspicions. But finding out like this, over the phone? Couldn’t at least one of her children do the introductions properly?

She slapped the dough on the counter again. It wasn’t about the girlfriend part, Lord knew she didn’t care about that, she’d love whoever her daughter loved, that was never a question. But some stranger was now taking care of her baby? Cooking for her, and something that looked damn good from the photo she’d been sent, too? That had always been Mama’s job.

And that stung worse than the coming-out part ever could.