Instead it was Jaclyn, calling from our kitchen, her voice sharp and thin as she griped about dirty dishes left in the sink.

Behind her on that call, clear as a bell across three thousand miles of ocean, I’d heard Benji crying while Jaclyn screamed at him to shut his mouth and quit whining about being hungry.

When I asked to talk to my grandson, Jaclyn hung up on me.

Fifteen minutes later I had canceled the rest of my trip, packed my bag and bought the first seat I could get back to Oklahoma.

On the plane I’d talked myself into believing Jaclyn was just overwhelmed and immature, unable to cope with a five-year-old while Clay was away making three thousand eight hundred dollars every two weeks on the rigs.