Page 146 of Sunday Morning

I turned to head to my room but stopped after two steps. “I’m sorry,” I said. “When I was in Nashville, and you did not know where I was, or if I was alive and safe, that must have been terrifying. I’m just … really sorry.”

EPILOGUE

FLEETWOOD MAC, “LANDSLIDE”

Ten Years Later

Isaac

“Mommy!”Heather pointed her tiny finger toward the television as I played the video from Sarah’s first headlining concert in Kansas City.

We wouldn’t let our three-year-old risk her hearing at concerts, so we hired a part-time nanny. But Heather loved watching the videos.

The tour bus cruised down the interstate toward Tulsa as my wife pulled Subway sandwiches from bags and set them on the table.

“Thatisyour mommy,” she said to Heather, grabbing her chubby hand and sucking her finger, which made Heathergiggle.

“There’s DADDY!” she screamed, seeing me appear on stage.

Sarah rolled her eyes.

I sang two songs with her: one I wrote called “My Favorite Sunday Morning,” which she sang background, and one she wrote called “Into Sunflowers.”

Heather was a daddy’s girl, even if her mom was a famous musician and songwriter who was quickly becoming a household name.

“Let’s have at least three more,” I said as Sarah sat next to Heather’s booster seat.

“Three more what?” she asked, focusing on unwrapping the sandwiches.

“Kids,” I said, checking the lid on the blue sippy cup and then handing it to Heather.

Sarah shot me an unblinking expression, lips parted. “Uh … are we moving from a part-time nanny to a full-time nanny?”

“Heck no. We’ve got this.”

She chuckled. “We?”

“Yes. You’ll work your butt off being the beloved Sunday Morning, and I’ll take care of the kids.”

“You’re my manager,” she said before taking a bite of her sandwich.

“I can do both.”

She slowly chewed on more than just her sandwich, eyeing me the whole time as if I would break and say, “Just kidding!”

I wasn’t kidding.

“Our parents will help. Our moms willfightover who gets tohelp.”

She grinned, glancing up at the screen where we were singing together, each with a guitar in our hands. “I’ll think about it,” she murmured.

That was a yes, even if she wanted to pretend that she needed time to think.

Ten years earlier, I left Anakin with Sarah’s sisters in a more tearful goodbye than I offered my parents. Then I bought us an old two-bedroom home in Nashville—a fixer-upper.

She wrote songs; I remodeled the bathroom and sanded the deck.

She made dinner, and I washed the dishes.

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