"Exactly what I'm trying to figure out," I said. The waitress came over and set down our appetizer, fried green tomatoes drizzled in something sweet and spicy. I picked one up and let it sit cool between my fingers. "Any who, I did want to apologize about all that bullshit Julise caused with the boys." The words tasted sour coming out of my mouth. I hated feeling like I had to answer for my child's mistakes. But that was motherhood, wasn't it? You carried their messes like they were your own.
"Nia shut up. That was just the worst thing they'd done all week. They not innocent by any means honey." She said, waving me off. Her hand flicked through the air like she was brushing lint off a jacket. "How are things with her?" She asked.
I exhaled slowly. "Her daddy call hisself putting his foot down with her. She hasn't been in any trouble that we know of lately. knock on wood." I said. I tapped the edge of the table with my knuckles, more out of habit than superstition.
Chiana studied me over the rim of her glass. "How are you?" She questioned, looking at me. That question always felt bigger than it sounded. For a second, I almost answered automatically.I'm good. I'm fine. I'm managing.The script I'd been using since I was fourteen. But something in me shifted. "I’m actually a lot better than I have been." I smiled, thinking honestly. It surprised me how true that felt.
"I can tell. You look better," she commented, sipping from her drink.
I looked down at myself like I could see what she meant. I’ve been putting more effort into my hair lately. Started wearing lip gloss again. Started looking in the mirror without immediately turning away. "I’ve been going to therapy," I admitted. "I should’ve done it a long time ago."
Chiana paused mid-sip. "Oh?" she said, softer now.
"Yeah." I nodded. "I just got tired of feeling like I was drowning in my own head." I picked up my fork and pushed the tomatoes around my plate. "I thought I could just pray it away. Work it away. Fuck it away." I gave her a small look. She smirked knowingly. "But that shit don't work like that." She didn't interrupt. That's why I loved her. "It's weird, though," I continued. "Sitting in there. Talking about stuff I don't even talk to myself about."
"Like what?" she asked.
I hesitated. How did I explain the weight of waking up every morning and moving through a routine like nothing inside you had cracked? How did I explain loving your husband and still feeling alone beside him? How did I explain the guilt of sometimes wondering what your life would've looked like if you hadn't grown up so fast? I cleared my throat. "I just want to feel taken care of without having to break first."
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Does Jules know you feel like that?" she asked gently. I let out a small laugh.
"You know Jules," I said. "He think being present is the same thing as being open." I didn't say it mean. Just true. He sat at the table. He paid bills. He showed up to games. He disciplined the kids. He handled business. But there were parts of him that never came back home. Parts that stayed behind bars even after he was released. Parts that still smelled like concrete and steel. Sometimes when we laid in the same bed, I could feel the distance between us like a third person under the covers. "I love him," I said quietly. "I do."
"I know you do," she replied.
"But loving somebody and reaching them ain't the same thing," I added. The waitress came back with our meals, plates clinking softly against the table. The conversation paused as we rearranged silverware and napkins. I watched a couple across the restaurant laugh at something private. The woman leaned her head on the man's shoulder, easy and unguarded. I looked away.
"You ever think about what you would've did if you hadn't left home so early?" Chiana asked casually, but her eyes were sharp.
I froze for half a second. I didn't like touching that question. It always felt dangerous, like pulling at a thread I built my whole life around not touching. “I don't know," I shrugged. "College, maybe. I cheered. "
She smiled. "I bet you was fine too."
I laughed. "My clothes got better after I left, though," I said. "Hair always done. I looked grown."
"You were grown."
I nodded. But being grown and being ready weren't the same thing either. "I don't regret my kids," I said quickly, almost defensively. "Don't get it twisted."
She held her hands up. "Ain't nobody saying that."
"I just..." I stopped. Just what? Just wish I'd had time to be Nia before I became somebody's wife? Before I became somebody's mama? Before grief rewrote my whole life? I swallowed it back down. "I want something that belong to me, and me only," I said
Her smile widened. "There she go."
We ate slower after that, conversation drifting to lighter topics, business ideas, Ayida's spiritual retreats, Amina's drama. But underneath it all, something steady was happening inside me.
I was in a different headspace now; I wasn't just reacting. I was thinking forward.
Later that night me and the kids pulled up at Evie's house and headed inside. It smelled like she was cooking gumbo. The scent hit me before I even shut the car door all the way, roux cooked down dark and slow, sausage, shrimp, that deep seasoned smell that wraps around your chest and makes you feel like you’re somewhere safe. It made my stomach growl thinking about a bowl of it on white rice. I hadn't realized how hungry I was. Not just for food.
The kids rushed in speaking to her and Saint before spreading out across the living room like it was their second home. Juelz headed straight for the couch, Jezel toward the kitchen island to see what she could sneak early, and Julise moved slower, eyes low, trying not to draw attention to herself. I noticed that, just like I noticed everything else.
Evie was standing up in the kitchen, stirring her pot. She always stood on a step stool when she cooked gumbo, like it required reverence. Big wooden spoon moving steady, shoulders relaxed but watchful. The kitchen lights hit her cheekbones, and the steam curled around her face like she was part of the ritual. "Where yo husband?" She questioned without turning to look at me. Her tone wasn't accusing. Just factual.
I leaned against the refrigerator, watching her. The cold of it seeped into my back through my shirt. "Who knows?" I said lowly.
She paused mid-stir. Not dramatic, just enough to let me know she heard the weight in my voice. Then she turned to look at me. "You look... healthy," She said, looking me up and down. " I was worried bout you for a minute honey you was thin as a dime. That chicken scratch ass hair all over your head every time I seen you." I giggled. Because it was true. There had been a stretch of months where I barely brushed my hair. ran myfingers through it and kept moving. Surviving didn't leave room for vanity.