Hot Mama’s eyes soften for the first time all night.
“Yes.”
My breath catches.
“Behind her ear?”
“Left side. Tiny thing. She got it after a night she should not have survived and a man she should not have trusted.”
“Mike?”
Hot Mama says nothing.
That is enough.
My mother, young and wild and beautiful, sitting in this place or somewhere like it, letting a woman mark her with a crown because surviving needed a symbol.
Then leaving.
Then losing herself anyway.
Tears burn again.
“I don’t want to be owned by anyone else,” I say.
The words come out harsher than I mean.
Hot Mama nods. “Good.”
“This feels like a mark.”
“It is.”
“A debt.”
Her smile is faint. “Maybe.”
My stomach twists. “At least you admit it.”
“Women lie to themselves enough. I try not to help.” She picks up the tiny stencil paper and shows me the design.
A crown.
Small.
Simple.
Sharp.
“This ain’t property,” Hot Mama says. “This ain’t a club claiming your ass. This ain’t a man’s name across your back or a patch saying you belong to somebody who thinks love is a leash.”
Her eyes hold mine.
“This is a reminder. You got a head. You got a spine. You got a boy watching. You got women at your back if you call. And if one day we call you, you remember who opened the road when your husband was trying to close every door.”
There it is. A confession. A tear runs down my cheek. I wipe it away quick.
If one day we call you.