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important than working toward a “Mrs.” degree, which she believed the only career choice for a proper southern lady. It went without saying that she wanted the “Mr.” part of the equation to be worthy of the family name. Which essentially meant rich.
    Enter her father. Her dad, a successful real estate developer and general contractor, was twelve years older than his wife when they’d married, and if not as rich as some, he was certainly well-off. Still, Gabby could remember studying the wedding photos of her parents as they stood outside the church and wondering how two such different people could have ever fallen in love. While her mom loved the pheasant at the country club, Dad preferred biscuits and gravy at the local diner; while Mom never walked as far as the mailbox without her makeup, Dad wore jeans, and his hair was always a bit disheveled. But love each other they did—of this, Gabby had no doubt. In the mornings, she would sometimes catch her parents in a tender embrace, and never once had she heard them argue. Nor did they have separate beds, like so many of Gabby’s friends’ parents, who often struck her as business partners more than lovers. Even now, when she visited, she would find her parents snuggled up on the couch together, and when her friends marveled, she would simply shake her head and admit that for whatever reason, they were perfectly suited to each other.
    Much to her mother’s endless disappointment, Gabby, unlike her three honey blond sisters, had always been more like her father. Even as a child, she preferred overalls to dresses, adored climbing in trees, and spent hours playing in the dirt. Every now and then, she would traipse behind her father at a job site, mimicking his movements as he checked the seals on newly installed windows or peeked into boxes that had recently arrived from Mitchell’s hardware store. Her dad taught her to bait a hook and to fish, and she loved riding beside him in his old, rumbly truck with its broken radio, a truck he’d never bothered to trade in. After work, they would either play catch or shoot baskets while her mom watched from the kitchen window in a way that always struck Gabby as not only disapproving, but uncomprehending. More often than not, her sisters could be seen standing beside her, their mouths agape.
    While Gabby liked to tell people about the free spirit she’d been as a child, in reality she’d ended up straddling both her parents’ visions of the world, mainly because her mom was an expert when it came to the manipulative power of motherhood. As she grew older, Gabby acquiesced more to her mother’s opinions about clothing and the proper behavior for ladies, simply to avoid feeling guilty. Of all the weapons in her mother’s arsenal, guilt was far and away the most effective, and Mom always knew just how to use it. Because of a raised eyebrow here and a little comment there, Gabby ended up in cotillion classes and dance lessons; she dutifully learned to play the piano and, like her mother, was formally presented at the Savannah Christmas Cotillion. If her mother was proud that night—and she was, by the look on her face—Gabby by that time felt as if she were finally ready to make her own decisions, some of which she knew her mother wouldn’t approve. Sure, she wanted to get married and have children someday just like Mom, but by then she’d realized that she also wanted a career like Dad. More specifically, she wanted to be a doctor.
    Oh, Mom said all the right things when she found out. In the beginning, anyway. But then the subtle guilt offensive began. As Gabby aced exam after exam in college, her mom would sometimes frown and wonder aloud whether it was possible to both work full-time as a doctor and be a full-time wife and mother.
    “But if work is more important to you than family,” her mom would say, “then by all means, become a doctor.”
    Gabby tried to resist her mother’s campaign, but in the end, old