Page 256

“You don't have to.”

“That needs to stay true.”

“It will.”

Her eyes narrow.

I catch myself.

“I’ll keep making choices that leave it true.”

That gets another small change in her face.

“Better.”

Mercy coughs from the hallway. “Five minutes became seven while y’all discovered emotional grammar.”

Sweet looks toward the door.

“Go.”

I nod.

Then I leave.

She does not call me back.

This time I do not need her to.

I have work to do.

Not on Sweet.

On me.

The first thing I do is fix the frame.

Not upstairs in my apartment. I take it to a workbench in the funeral home where Sweet does not have to wonder whether I expect her to come retrieve it from the same room where I held her all night before I wrecked everything.

The wood split along one corner. The backing needs replacing. One of the metal tabs bent when she clutched it against her chest, but the glass survived somehow.

Mama's face looks up at me while I work.

I have never met this woman, yet I feel judged.

“Your daughter has terrible taste in men.”

Mama continues smiling from behind the glass.

“Fair.”

I take my time. No glue smeared where it does not belong. No rushing because I want credit for being useful. I reinforce the broken corner from behind but leave the thin line of the crack visible.

Some damage can be repaired without pretending it never happened.

When I finish, I carry the frame upstairs and hand it to Mercy.

Not Sweet.