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“Mama, you look beautiful,” I complimented when I walked into the green room. “Look at you, being a fine-ass nigga’s fine-ass mama.”

She popped me on the back of my head. “Stop playing with me, Ledger. I have never played with you, and I’m not going to start.”

I rubbed the back of my head while I laughed. I knew that would get a rise out of her. “Dang, Mama. You didn’t have to hit me that hard. You know I was just playing. You are fine, though.”

She did look beautiful. One thing that differed with my mother’s childcare center graduations and others was the attire required to attend. The children didn’t wear caps and gowns. They did wear caps, but the boys wore suits, and the girls wore dresses. The parents were also required to do the same. Kamila Johnson’s philosophy was that graduations at Bright Beginnings Learning Center were an auspicious occasion and deserved to be treated as such.

Her cheeks rose with her smile. “Thank you, baby. You’re handsome yourself. I can’t wait until you come to one of my graduations because it’s my grandbaby graduating.”

Here she goes. “Mama, you do realize I’m only thirty-three, right? I still have time.”

In my twenties, my mother never said anything about children or that she wanted grandchildren. I assumed she did, but she never spoke on it. When I turned thirty, it was like a switch was flipped. At my damn birthday party was the first time she asked when I would give her a grandbaby. It caught me completely off guard.

She sucked her teeth. “I know exactly how old you are. You did come out of my⁠—”

“I know where I came out of, thank you. You’ve been busy this week. I haven’t seen you or really talked to you.” I missed my mother. We usually had lunch together once a week, but she was busy this week and canceled.

She kissed me on my cheek. “I know, baby boy. I was tied up with the realtor looking at buildings for the next center. How about we do lunch Wednesday?”

My smile was wide at the mention of another center. The only time she entertained opening another center was when her waiting list exceeded one hundred students. There were children on the waiting list who were still in fucking utero.

“That’s what’s up, Mama. I’m so proud of you.” I pulled her into me for a tight hug. I thought about my schedule after we separated. “I can’t do Wednesday. I have a meeting with my lighting designer to go over the new plan for Kryptonite Reserve.”

My mother looked at me sideways. “What the hell is a lighting designer, and what plan are you talking about? I could have sworn the building had lights.”

I chuckled. Her thought process wasn’t much different than mine when Milan Renee said something to me about hiring a lighting designer. “It does, but apparently, there is a way to light establishments that are complimentary to the aura and vibe that you want to have.”

“Oh, okay. In my opinion, it sounds like all that fengshui shit that people were doing years ago. Don’t let them people get you like that stupid-ass girl did with those Godforsaken chandeliers,” my mother said with an eyeroll.

I burst with laughter. “Well, damn! No one likes the chandeliers?”

“I didn’t like the girl, or those ugly shits. What’s the name of the company that is supposed to do this lighting thing?” she asked.

She didn’t make it a secret that she didn’t like Lala. They had one conversation over dinner, and my mother told the girl she wasn’t it. I should have listened to her. It would have saved me time, effort, feelings, and bullets.

“It’s called The Lighted Layne. The owner is a woman named Memoree Layne Smith,” I told her.

She shook her head. “Nope! Pull up their website on your phone. I need to see this girl that has you blushing.”

I cut my eyes over at her. “I’m not blushing, Mama. I’ll pull it up.”

Her page was saved in my favorites, but I dared not tell my nosy-ass mother that shit. “I was not blushing.” Once I had the page up, which took a quick second, I handed her my phone.

“Boy, your light skin tells on you every time. That’s why your ass couldn’t get away with shit when you were younger. Your skin turns red for most of your emotions and wrongdoings,” she told me.

When she finally looked at the phone, she was silent. The photo of her on her main page was beautiful, and most of all, powerful. She stood in front of her company’s building that was dope as fuck. I bet the lighting in it was perfect. She wore a navy-blue, wide-leg business suit with a black top under it and black heels. Her hair was bone straight.

All her jewelry was gold. The vibe of the photo was boss-ass bitch—not bitch in a bad way but in the way that other women called each other the adjective to encourage each other.

My mother looked between my phone screen and me for what felt like forever. “Y’all would make some pretty babies. She is gorgeous.” Her head angled to the side. “Based on what I know, the only way the children will have albinism is if you carry the gene as well.”

My eyes almost fell out of their sockets. “Mama, how do you go straight to babies? All I said was that we have a meeting. How did you know she has albinism?”

“Because I have eyes,” she responded as she handed my phone back. “Oh, and I went straight to babies because I got this feeling . . . Mamas know. Let’s get out there so we can celebrate these babies.”

That was officially the end of the conversation. When my mother was done with a topic, it didn’t matter whether you were or not. I respected it because it was a trait that I’d inherited.

I thought about what she said. It was comical but true. Mamas know.