"Yeah I been trying to pour into me a little bit more," I said to her.
She studied me for a second longer than necessary. Evie didn't miss shifts in people. Especially not women she considered hers. "Took you long enough, honey." She said, turning back to stir her pot. Her words weren't cruel. They were earned.
I walked further into the kitchen, opened a cabinet without thinking, then closed it. Habit. I always helped in this house. Always reached for bowls, napkins, or something to make myself useful. "When is everybody else coming?" I asked her.
"Everybody else ain’t invited." She said simply. I froze for half a second. The kitchen felt smaller. Steam rolled off the pot and clouded the air between us.
"Oh," I said, straightening up. I could hear Saint laughing in the living room with the kids. The TV playing low. A normal night. Except it wasn't normal. Evie turned the stove down a notch and wiped her hands on a dish towel. The door opened, catching both of our attention. The sound of it was heavy and familiar, hit my chest before I even saw him. I felt the shift in the air. That quiet tightening inside me that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with history.
After a few minutes, Jules rounded the corner to the kitchen. He went in to hug Evie, but she swatted at him. "You late. Why the hell you wasn't here with your family when they came?" She asked.
"Ma, come on," He said to her. His tone wasn't playful. It wasn't defensive either. Just clipped. Guarded. Like everything else about him lately. I kept my eyes on the counter. On the condensation sliding down the side of my glass. On anything but him.
"Children, come sit. Food is done." She yelled out to the living room. Chairs scraped. Feet shuffled. The kids came running in, laughing, arguing about who was sitting where. Evie fixed the kids’ plates and took them to their table. She always served them first. Always made sure they were settled before the adults did anything. I watched her do it and thought about how routine can become its own kind of grief. The way you keep doing the same motions even when your heart feel different.
We each set a plate and sat at the dining room table. Jules sat across from me. Not next to me. There was a time that would've bothered me. Now it just felt accurate. We ate quietly for a few minutes before Evie broke the silence. The only sounds were spoons hitting bowls and Saint clearing his throat. "What is going on with y’all? Jules, you walk in the room and don't greet your wife. You barely look at one another. I can see now why your child act buck wild when she get ready." She said. Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't have to be.
I kept my spoon moving in the bowl. Shrimp, rice, broth. Same motions. Same rhythm. "That's what this about?" Jules said, smacking his lips. He leaned back slightly in his chair. Shoulders stiff. I didn't look up. I could feel the tension moving across the table like heat.
"Clearly, some conversation need to be had about it. Yall household is a damn mess." Saint chimed in.
I swallowed. His words stung more than they should have. I set my spoon down gently. "Our household been through a lot," I said evenly. Evie looked at me like she was waiting for more.
Jules shifted in his seat. "It ain't about what y'all been through," Evie said. "It's about what y'all refusing to deal with." Silence again. The kids were laughing at something at their table, unaware of the weight sitting at ours. I glanced at Julise for a second. She was smiling at something Juelz said, hair falling over her shoulder. For a moment, she looked younger. Not the girl sneaking out windows. Not the name whispered in hallways. Just my baby. "You think this just about her acting out?" Evie continued. "Children feel what they see. Y'all think they don't, but they do." Jules' jaw tightened.
"So what you want us to do?" he asked. It wasn't aggressive. It was tired.
Evie leaned back in her chair. "I want y'all to be honest. In front of each other. Not just in the dark." My fingers wrapped around my glass. The word itself felt dangerous. Because honesty meant admitting things I hadn't even let myself say out loud yet. I glanced at Jules. He was staring at his bowl. Not at me. Not at anybody. I thought about how we used to sit at tables like this and bump knees. Pass food without looking. Share small glances like we had our own language. Now we moved around each other like furniture.
Functional.
Necessary.
Distant.
"You wanna talk about honesty?" Jules said, finally, looking up. His eyes flicked to me, then away. I felt it. That almost-look. That almost-connection. And then it was gone. "I been home for months," he continued. "Trying to get my house back in order. Trying to get my kids straight. Trying to keep shit from falling apart." I listened.
"But?" Evie pressed.
He exhaled through his nose. "But it's like I walked back into a house that don't feel like mine no more." The words hung there. I stared at him. Something inside me moved.
That house didn't feel like mine either. But I had been here the whole time. "You was gone for a year," I said quietly. Not accusatory. Just true. He looked at me then. For a second, I saw the boy he used to be. The one who used to fight for me in the hallways. The one who thought loving me meant protecting me from everything, even himself.
"I know that," he said. His voice dropped.
Saint cleared his throat softly. "And while you was gone," Evie said, eyes steady on him, "she was here. Holding this shit together." I didn't like being spoken for. But I also didn't interrupt. Because I was tired. Tired of being strong in silence and making everything look manageable.
"You think I don't know that?" Jules said. His voice wasn't raised. It was tight. "I came home, and my daughter was spiraling. My wife won't look at me half the time. And every time I try to fix something it feel like I'm too late." There it was. I pressed my lips together. Because I had felt that too. Too late to say certain things. Too late to undo certain mistakes. Too late to bring certain people back.
Evie looked between us. "So what y'all gon do?" she asked. The question wasn't rhetorical. It sat heavy on the table.
I folded my hands in my lap. "I don't want to keep pretending we good when we not," I said carefully. The room got quiet.
Jules' eyes snapped to mine. "I ain't pretending," he said.
I met his gaze this time. "You don't talk," I replied. It wasn't cruel. It was a fact. "You shut down. And then you wanna fix shit with sex or rules or control. But you don't say nothing."
His jaw flexed. "And what you do?" he shot back. "You disappear. You gone when we wake up. You ignore my calls. You in your own world."