I was sittin' on the couch, my wrist restin' on a pillow, while Mama fussed over me like I'd gone and broken every bone in my body. The afternoon sun poured through the window, casting warm light across the room, but it didn't soften the tight knot of worry in Mama's face. She didn't say much, but I could see it plain as day every time her eyes flicked to my hand.

"You sure you ain't feelin' worse?" she asked, her voice soft but firm, the way it got when she meant business.

"I'm fine, Mama," I said, though the dull ache in my wrist hadn't let up since recess. The wrap Mrs. Tate put on it at school felt snug, but the throb underneath was steady. "Mrs. Tate said it's just a sprain."

Mama sighed, wipin' her hands on her apron like she was tryin' to wipe the worry away too. Her brow was creased, and I knew she wouldn't rest easy until I was back to runnin' around like my usual self.

"I know... I just don't like seein' you hurt," she murmured.

She disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of the freezer door creakin' open and the rustle of plastic bags fillin' the quiet. A minute later, she came back with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel.

"Here—put this on it," she said, handin' it over like it was a cure-all.

I took the peas and laid them gently over my wrist. The cold bit in sharp at first, sendin' a shiver up my arm, but then it started to dull the ache. I relaxed into the cushion a little, lettin' the coolness work its magic.

Mama sat down beside me, her arm restin' lightly across my shoulders, warm and comfortin'. I leaned into her, breathin' in the faint scent of flour and soap that always clung to her.

"I was thinkin' we'd make Khachapuri tonight," she said, her voice soft but a little brighter. "I know how much you liked it when we made it last time."

My face lit up. I loved Khachapuri—the warm, doughy bread filled with gooey cheese and topped with an egg, all melty and rich. Papa called it "cheese boat bread" the first time we made it, and we all laughed, but it stuck.

"That sounds real good, Mama," I said, the ache in my wrist forgotten for a second.

"Can I help?" I asked, hopeful.

Mama looked at me like I'd sprouted a second head.
"With one hand? I don't think so, baby. You just sit tight."

I frowned, my face fallin' a little.
"But I always help," I mumbled. Bein' in the kitchen with Mama was our thing. Choppin', stirrin', tastin'—it felt wrong sittin' out.

Mama sighed again, but this time, there was a small smile tuggin' at her lips.
"You're just like your Papa—stubborn as a mule," she said, givin' me a squeeze.

I grinned, feelin' proud of that. Bein' like Papa was a good thing in my book.

As Mama got up and started gatherin' the flour and cheese, I watched her from the couch, listenin' to the familiar sounds of home—the clink of the mixing bowl, the whisk scrapin' against it, and the quiet hum of her voice as she started hummin' a hymn from church.

Even though my wrist hurt, everythin' still felt right.

And I couldn't wait to tear into that cheesy bread later.

I yawned, grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on the TV.
The screen lit up to WJXT 4, the same news channel Mama always had on when she was cleanin' or startin' dinner.

The news anchor, a woman with short blonde hair and a real serious face, was talkin' about somethin' that sounded important—but not to me.

"Authorities are still investigatin' the cause of the brush fire that broke out late Sunday evening near the edge of the Osceola National Forest. Fire crews say the blaze burned through approximately twenty acres before it was contained this mornin'. No homes were damaged, but officials remind residents to remain cautious during this dry season."

I blinked, not really takin' it all in, but listenin' just the same. I knew where Osceola was—it wasn't too far, but not close enough to worry Mama or Papa.

The screen switched to a shot of a man in a suit standin' outside, wavin' his hand toward a map with a bunch of red arrows.

"And in weather," he said with a voice that almost made me yawn, "temperatures will remain high through the weekend, with a chance of scattered thunderstorms Friday afternoon. Humidity levels will be up, so it'll be another sticky one, folks."

I slouched lower into the couch, adjustin' the bag of peas on my wrist.
The weatherman's hands kept wavin' around like he was directin' traffic, but all I heard was: hot, sticky, maybe rain—same as always in Georgia.

Then came the part that made me perk up a little.

"In sports, the Jacksonville Jaguars are gearin' up for their preseason opener this Saturday. Head coach Doug Pederson says the team's lookin' strong, with quarterback Trevor Lawrence leadin' drills at today's practice."

I smiled a little. Papa liked the Jaguars, even when they weren't winnin' much. When he watched a game on Sunday, I'd sit next to him sometimes, pretendin' I understood more than I really did. Mostly, I just liked cheerin' when he cheered.

The news went back to the anchor.

"And finally, a reminder that the annual Okefenokee Swamp Festival is just a few weeks away. Organizers say there'll be live music, local crafts, and of course, plenty of fried gator tail for those feelin' brave."

That part made me laugh—gator tail was nothin' new to me, but folks from out of town always acted like it was some wild, exotic thing.

Mama peeked out from the kitchen.
"What's so funny?"

"They're talkin' 'bout gator tail like it's fancy food."

She laughed, shakin' her head.
"Well, I reckon we're a little more used to it than most."

I nodded, sinkin' back into the couch. The news kept on, but it started driftin' into that kinda background noise that made my eyes feel heavy.

The news kept on, but after a few more minutes of brush fires and traffic reports, my mind started wanderin'. My wrist still ached under the bag of peas, and listenin' to grown folks talk about the weather wasn't doin' much to make me feel better.

I grabbed the remote and clicked through a few channels until bright colors filled the screen—some cartoon I didn't recognize, but it didn't matter. Little animals runnin' around, chasin' each other with big eyes and squeaky voices—the kind of thing that always made me smile, even when I tried to act like I was too old for it.

I sank deeper into the couch, lettin' the silly voices and cheerful music wash over me like a warm breeze. For a little while, I forgot all about my wrist, the soccer game, and Jacob's gloatin'. It was just me, the couch, and some goofy cartoon dog dancin' across the screen.

Mama peeked in from the kitchen, saw me smilin', and gave a little nod like she was glad I'd found somethin' to lift my spirits.

Sometimes, cartoons could fix a day better than any ice pack.

I was halfway through watchin' some silly cartoon dog fall into a bucket of paint when I heard the familiar honk of Papa's truck down the driveway. My heart jumped like it always did when he got home—I loved seein' him, hearin' about his day, and most of all, maybe gettin' a little surprise he made at work.

I started to push myself up off the couch, ready to run out like I always did, but Mama's voice cut me short.

"Uh-uh, Emily. You stay right there," she said from the kitchen, her tone soft but firm. "Let him come in."

I stopped, a little pout formnin' on my lips.
"But Mama—"

"No 'buts.' That wrist needs rest. You heard what Mrs. Tate said."

I sighed, slinkin' back into the couch.
Didn't feel right.
I always ran out to see Papa—always. Not today, though. I stayed put, feelin' kinda like one of those chickens when Mama made them sit still in her lap for trimmin' their feathers.

The screen door creaked open, and I heard Papa's boots hit the wooden floor.
He called out like he always did—loud and cheery.

"I'm home!"

Usually, I'd be wrapped 'round his waist by now, but today, I stayed quiet on the couch, feelin' a little awkward.
I saw Papa peek 'round the corner, his brows liftin' when he saw me sittin' still.

"Well, what's this now? My wild little girl ain't rushin' out to tackle me? Somethin' wrong?" His voice was light, but there was a thread of concern under it. He knew me too well.

Mama came in, dryin' her hands on a dish towel, shootin' me a look that said, You tell him, or I will.

I shifted, holdin' up my wrist.
"I hurt it... at recess," I admitted, a little embarrassed. "Fell playin' soccer."

Papa's eyes narrowed slightly—not angry, just worried. He came over, crouchin' beside the couch.
"Let me see, baby."

I carefully pulled the peas off, showin' him the wrap. He examined it close, his rough fingers gentle against my skin.

"Mrs. Tate did this?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I nodded. "She said it's just a sprain."

Papa let out a slow breath, his worry easin' a little.
"Well... looks like she fixed you up right. You gonna be okay, kiddo?"

"I'm okay," I said, though my voice was quieter than usual.

He smiled, rufflin' my hair real gentle so he didn't bump my wrist.
"That's my tough girl."

Mama was watchin' us from the doorway, her arms crossed—but her eyes had softened now that Papa knew what was goin' on.

"Dinner'll be ready soon," she said, "so don't get her riled up."

Papa stood, smilin' at her.
"No rilin'—I promise."

But I knew he'd still sneak me somethin' fun later—maybe a carved critter, or a story, or just a joke to make me laugh. That was how Papa was.

"Lord, we thank You for this food, for the hands that made it, and for the day You gave us. We ask You to bless this home and our family. And, Lord, please watch over Emily's wrist—help it heal up quick and strong. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I said together.

I peeked up at Papa, feelin' a little knot in my chest—the good kind.
I always loved the way he prayed.
Simple. Honest. Like he was talkin' to a friend.

Dinner smelled amazing.

Mama had set out the Khachapuri, still steamin', the cheese bubblin' in the center with the egg just right.
There were also some fresh tomatoes sliced with salt and pepper and sweet tea—the kind that made your teeth tingle a little.

As we dug in, I tried my best to cut into the Khachapuri with my left hand—the wrong hand. It felt all kinds of awkward.
The fork kept slippin', and when I finally got a piece up to my mouth, some cheese stretched out like a string, dangling halfway to my chin.

Mama noticed, hidin' a smile behind her napkin.
"Want some help, baby?"

"No, ma'am," I said, determined.
I gripped the fork tighter, like it was a wild horse needin' taming, and managed to get another bite.

Papa chuckled low under his breath, watchin' me wrestle my dinner.

"You'll get it, kiddo," he said with a wink.
"Back when I broke my thumb workin' on Old Man Harper's roof, I had to hammer nails with my left hand for two weeks straight. Thought I was gonna knock the whole house down. But I got the hang of it. You will too."

I smiled, feelin' a little better. If Papa could do it, so could I.

Mama gave him a look like she'd heard that story a thousand times, but it still made her smile.

"How was work today?" she asked him, spearin' a tomato slice with her fork.

Papa wiped his mouth with his napkin, leanin' back in his chair a little.
"Busy as ever. Worked on finishin' up the cabinets for the Tanners' kitchen. They want that fancy wood—what's it called? Walnut?"

Mama nodded. "That's the expensive kind."

Papa laughed. "Sure is. Had me sweatin' all day, makin' sure I didn't mess it up. Sanded every piece twice, just to be safe. But it's comin' together real nice. Gonna look sharp."

I listened close, picturin' him in the workshop, sawdust floatin' through the air, sunlight streamin' in from the windows while he built those cabinets with his own two hands.

"Did you make anything else?" I asked, hopin' for another little wooden critter like the fox or the gator.

Papa smiled. "Not today. But maybe tomorrow... we'll see."

I nodded, satisfied.
Just the thought that he might make somethin' special for me someday soon made my heart feel warm.

After we cleaned up from dinner—Mama not lettin' me touch a single dish with my wrist wrapped up—we all made our way to the porch.
That was our favorite place to end the day, especially when the air was still warm but not too hot, and the sun was slippin' behind the trees.

Papa settled into his rocker, his boots tappin' lightly against the wooden floorboards.
Mama took her spot on the swing, a glass of sweet tea in her hand, swayin' slow.
And I sat cross-legged right there on the porch steps, restin' my arm on my knee, lookin' out at the yard as the first lightning bugs started flickerin' in the grass.

We were quiet for a while, just listenin' to the swamp sounds—frogs croakin', crickets chirpin', and the far-off hoot of an owl somewhere past the trees.

Then Papa leaned forward, his voice low and easy.

"You know, my granddaddy—your great-granddaddy—he used to sit on a porch kinda like this every night, just like we're doin' now," he started, his eyes gazin' out like he was seein' a memory instead of the yard.
"He was a tough man—hard workin'. Built this here house with his bare hands, every board and nail. And he could fish better than anyone I ever met."

I leaned in, eager. I loved hearin' about family from before I was born—especially folks like Great-Granddaddy, who sounded like he belonged in a storybook.

"What was his name?" I asked.

"Henry," Papa said with a little grin, like just sayin' his name brought back a flood of memories.
"Henry Saunders. But everyone 'round here called him Hank."

"Hank," I repeated, likin' the sound of it.

Papa nodded. "He was quiet most days, but when he talked, you listened. I remember sittin' out with him, kinda like we are now, and he'd tell me all about the swamp—where the best fishin' holes were, how to read the water when the gators were nearby, and how to follow deer tracks through the woods."

He paused, rockin' slow.

"One time... I was 'bout your age, maybe a little older. We were fishin' at the creek down past the old Miller place—before that land got cleared. I hooked the biggest catfish I'd ever seen. I was reelin' and fightin', and just when I thought I had him, the line snapped. I thought I was gonna cry right there. But your great-granddaddy? He just patted me on the back and said, 'Sometimes the fish wins, boy. But we come back tomorrow.'"

I smiled, picturin' Papa as a kid, all frustrated over losin' a fish.
That sounded like somethin' Papa would say to me now, and it made me feel closer to Great-Granddaddy Hank, even though I'd never met him.

Mama was smilin' too, listenin' quietly like she loved hearin' these stories just as much as I did.

I tucked my knees up to my chest, restin' my chin on them.
I liked thinkin' about family sittin' on porches just like this, sharin' stories, listenin' to the frogs, and watchin' the sun go down.

It made me feel like I was part of somethin' bigger—like Hank's blood was in me too, makin' me strong, teachin' me patience... even when it came to healin' up a sprained wrist.