NIA
One Year Later
I stood in the kitchen stirring heavy whipping cream into the pot of cheese grits, moving the spoon slow and steady, like if I rushed it the whole thing might scorch. The pot clicked faintly against the burner. The smell of butter and salt filled the house the same way it always did. Mornings had a way of pretending nothing was wrong if you let them. Sunlight poured in through the window over the sink, bright enough to make the dust float, as if it had somewhere important to be.
I could tell the temperature had dropped overnight by the way the leaves clung to the yard just long enough to let go all at once. The tree out back looked thinner than it had yesterday. Everything did.
Juelz and Jezel sat at the counter, swinging their legs, arguing softly about something that had happened at school the day before. A teacher. A girl who'd said something slick. Whose turn it had been to line up first. Their voices blended together into a low hum I didn't need to follow. I listened just enough to know they were fine. That was the rule now. Check for fine. Keep moving.
It had been a little over a year since we buried Juliana. A year since Jules had been locked up. A year since the house had learned how to breathe without them in it, even though it still felt wrong every time it did.
Grief didn't come crashing in like people said it would. It settled. It slid into the cracks of my routine and made itself useful. I woke up. I cooked. I signed papers. I combed my hair. Ishowed up where I was supposed to be and stayed quiet when it mattered. Some days passed so smoothly I almost forgot why my chest felt heavy. Other days, I felt it before my feet even touched the floor.
I'd learned how to coast. That was the only word for it. Not living. Not healing. Just moving forward because the world didn't stop when my daughter died.
I couldn't afford to fall apart even if I wanted to. I still had three other children who had lost her, too. Lost their sister. And lost their father in a different way. I wasn't the only one grieving in this house. I was just the one expected to carry it without spilling.
The spoon scraped the bottom of the pot. I turned the burner down and reached for the salt, measuring by memory. Too much and they'd complain. Too little and they'd drown it in butter to make a point. Every small thing felt like it mattered more now.
Jules and I hadn't spoken in months. Not really, we hadn't talked in a way that meant anything. We hadn't said two full sentences to each other outside of logistics, phone calls with the kids, schedules, and things that could be handled without emotion attached.
I tried to go see him once. I still remember how the visiting room smelled, clean, like it had been scrubbed too many times without enough care. The way he came out and didn't even sit. How he looked at me like I was something he'd already decided to let go of.
"Get the fuck on," he'd said, voice flat. Like he was ordering food he didn't want anymore. "Take me back to my cell."
That was it. I didn't cry in the car. Nor did I scream or even ask why. I drove home the same way I drove everywhere now. eyes forward, hands steady, heart tucked somewhere it couldn't interrupt.
Part of me felt like I deserved it.
I knew what happened to Juliana was on me. Nobody had to say it. The silence around it said enough. The guilt sat quietly but permanently, like a bruise you stopped looking for. I replayed that day more times than I could count, always starting a little earlier, always ending a little sooner, like if I adjusted the memory enough it might change the outcome.
I would have traded places with my baby without hesitation. I still would. That thought lived in me like a reflex.
I knew Jules would never forgive me. Not fully. Maybe not at all. He didn't even look at me the same way in my mind anymore. In memory, his eyes always slid past me like I wasn't something worth stopping for.
"Ma, the grits done."
Julise's voice cut through the kitchen and pulled me back. I blinked and turned toward her. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, already watching me like she was waiting to see what version of me she'd get today.
She was almost fourteen now. Old enough to understand more than I wanted her to. Old enough to ask questions, I didn't always have answers for. The older she got, the more she looked like her daddy. She had the same eyes, same mouth when she was annoyed, same way of standing, like the world was already against her.
She held me accountable in ways my other kids didn't. We butted heads constantly, not because she was bad, but because she was watching and measuring. It felt like she was deciding who I was now.
I looked her over and felt my mouth tighten.
She had on a cropped sweatshirt that showed her stomach when she moved, tight leggings that looked two sizes too small, and lip gloss shining like she was going somewhere she didn't need to be. Her braids were pulled half up, half down, neat but intentional. She knew what she was doing.
"Jul, go and change now," I said, keeping my voice even. I raised an eyebrow, waiting.
She stared back at me, unmoved. Like my words had floated right past her.
"Julise," I said again, firmer.
She didn't budge.
"Julise, go change your damn clothes now."
My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. The kitchen went quiet for half a second. She rolled her eyes, huffed under her breath, and stomped off down the hallway.