Lily drove past tiny towns and big metropolises.  She packed up what she could in her small car and left the rest behind, anything to get away from the life that she helplessly felt was eroding away into disaster.

Her dad was right. "Never fall for a guy who is more in love with himself than he is with you," was his advice to her as she was about to embark to Los Angles. A practical man from Iowa, who was most comfortable on the cornfields, Lily's dad was always her solid rock.  She never felt she should compare her men in her life to her dad, but they fell far short in the comparison that she never tried to use as her measuring stick. Nothing phony or pretentious about him in his daughter's eyes, Mack was the real deal of what a man should be.

Now her husband, Trey, was just the opposite. He was the lead singer of a local band, and his magnetic attraction towards women was certainly not uncommon among musicians. They fell for him like he was the Pied Piper—for he was viewed as a lady killer—and he willingly obliged more than once to any adoring female fan. Lily couldn't put up with it anymore, and so she was heading home. Two years since she saw her dad, he was surely there to welcome her back with open arms.  He told her she always had a place in his home. Her old yellow lab, Buster, was waiting for her, too.    

Lily drove past mountains and valleys, twists and turns, drove by wheat fields and wildflowers. They were the breadcrumbs that paved a way to the cornfields and sleepy, little towns that were all so familiar to her. Once she got there, she'd give her dear dad a huge bear hug, receive dozens of sloppy kisses from her dog, greet an old friend or two, and take a nice good bubble bath—anything to clear her mind and soothe her soul.

So it was Iowa, once again, that she would make as her home. From there, who knew? All she knew is that she was well on her way.