Page 181 of When Love Takes Root

Instead, I stood in the foyer with my daughters watching from the couch, my oldest son’s words ringing in the walls, and the empty curb pressing against the front window.

Kayden whispered, “Mama.”

I lifted one hand.

Not to silence him forever.

Just long enough for me to stay standing.

“Not tonight.”

His face crumpled all the way then.

I hated that too.

But I couldn’t hold everybody right then. Not after sending away the man who’d sat at my table, honored my house, respected my children, and left because I asked him to.

I walked into the kitchen and gripped the counter. The plates were washed. The cake was covered. The chairs were pushed in except Kayden’s sitting crooked from when he stormed away.

I stared at that chair until my vision blurred.

For years, I’d been so afraid of grief taking another thing from my children that I let it keep a place at the table.

Tonight, it used my son’s voice.

Then it used mine.

And Josiah left with both of our fingerprints on the door.

Sunday Afternoon

Three days had passed since dinner at Celeste’s house, and I still carried the sound of her back gate closing behind me.

Friday, I went back like I said I would. I repaired Maya’s outlets, checked the room, replaced the worn receptacles, and left nothing humming behind drywall where a child laid her head at night. Celeste stayed near the doorway most of the time, pretty as ever and twice as guarded. Her hair was pulled back, her juicy, luscious lips bare, and her eyes carried the softness of sleep her body hadn’t trusted.

She thanked me more than once.

She barely looked at me while she did it.

JJ wasn’t there. Kayden wasn’t either. The girls hovered, especially Maya, who watched every turn of my screwdriver with her sketchbook pressed to her chest like she was learning whether grown folks kept promises after damage was found. Zuri asked six questions. Skye offered me a fruit snack from her personal stash. Celeste stood close enough for me to feel her presence and far enough to remind me she’d sent me away.

I left after the room was safe.

I didn’t ask for a conversation.

I didn’t ask why her eyes kept finding the floor.

I didn’t ask if she regretted it.

I sat in my truck outside my mama’s house with the engine off and my hands resting on the steering wheel. The street looked the same as always. Neat lawns. Old oaks. Two boys riding bikes too fast past a mailbox they’d probably hit before the year ended. A neighbor’s dog barking like he paid taxes and had property disputes.

Normal life had the nerve to keep breathing, while my chest filled with smoke.

I replayed that patio conversation until memory put me on the stand. My baby had stood in front of me with tears on her face, arms locked around herself, like she was the only thing keeping her upright, and I walked away because she asked me to.

I should’ve told her space didn’t mean absence.

I should’ve made sure she knew my leaving wasn’t agreement, punishment, or retreat. It was respect with blood in its mouth.