Her latest post was from yesterday. A photo of her at the Atlanta airport, smiling in front of a sign that read “Welcome to Georgia.”
Visitingmy favorite aunt for the week! ATL, here I come!????
Relief washed over me so strong I almost laughed.
She was in Georgia. A whole state away. Which meant she wouldn’t be showing up at Grits. Wouldn’t be calling my name across the diner. Wouldn’t be hunting me down while I was trying to work.
I had a week. A whole week of breathing room.
How was our father allowing this?
The man I remembered—the man who’d controlled every aspect of our lives, who barely let us leave the house without a chaperone, who treated his daughters like possessions to be guarded—that man would never have permitted his unmarried daughter to travel alone.
Had he changed? Had she fought for her freedom? Or was there something else going on that I didn’t understand?
I closed Instagram and pushed the questions away. It didn’t matter. Mehar’s life wasn’t my concern anymore. I had my own life to protect. A kid to raise. My own dreams to build.
I spent the next few hours working on the business plan.
Location research. I needed a storefront in a high-traffic area, somewhere accessible but affordable. Northeast was too expensive. Southeast had potential but the foot traffic was inconsistent. Maybe something in Petworth or Columbia Heights?
Cost projections. Rent. Utilities. Equipment. Ingredients. Packaging. Marketing. The numbers were overwhelming but not impossible. Especially if I could secure a small business loan or find an investor willing to take a chance.
Revenue estimates. Based on the gala and the farmers markets, I had real numbers now. Real proof that people wanted what I was selling. That Sweet Zin could be more than just a side hustle.
By early afternoon, I had a rough draft of a business plan. Nothing polished enough to show anyone yet, but a start. A real start.
I leaned back in my chair and smiled.
This was happening. Really happening.
Then I checked the refrigerator and realized I needed ingredients for dinner. Yusef loved my jerk chicken and I wanted to make something special for him tonight. Maybe it would help him open up. Maybe over a good meal, he’d finally tell me what was going on.
I grabbed my purse and headed out to catch the bus.
The grocery storewas crowded for a Monday afternoon.
I moved through the aisles slowly, picking up chicken thighs, scotch bonnet peppers, thyme, allspice. The familiar rhythm of shopping calming my mind.
I added rice, beans, some vegetables for a side. Grabbed a container of vanilla ice cream because Yusef loved it.
The total came to more than I’d planned, but I didn’t care. Tonight we’d have a good meal. We’d sit together. We’d talk.
Everything would be okay.
I caught the bus back home, bags heavy in my hands, watching the city pass by through the smudged window.
It was a little after four when I got off at my stop.
That’s when I heard the sirens.
At first I didn’t think anything of it. Sirens were constant in this neighborhood. Police cars. Ambulances. Fire trucks. Background noise you learned to tune out.
But as I turned the corner toward my building, I saw the lights.
Red and blue. Flashing. Everywhere.
Police cars blocking the street. An ambulance parked at an angle, doors open. Yellow tape stretched across the back side of the building, creating a barrier that a crowd of people was pressing against.
