We took our seats while the pastor stood up and started giving his word, talking about life and death, redemption, God’s timing, all that. But me and Stormi? We weren’t really hearing none of it. Not in a disrespectful way, just grief got a way of turning up the silence in your head so loud, even God gotta speak up.
Stormi’s fingers found mine, and once they locked, I was gone. I wasn’t in that church anymore. Wasn’t surrounded by fresh flowers, people fake crying, or the weight of a goodbye nobody asked for. I was somewhere else, somewhere quiet, peaceful. Me and her, older, laughing in a backyard, her hair gray but still wild, our kids loud and full of life. A whole future, one I never thought I deserved, but suddenly couldn’t imagine not having.
That’s how I knew I changed for real. I used to daydream about money, revenge, power, flexin’ on whoever doubted me. But now I’m sittin’ at Jo’s funeral, hand in hand with the woman I’d burn the world down for and all I could think about was forever.
Me, a married man, straight up family guy. Damn. And don’t get it twisted I still got my demons. Still don’t trust anybody too quick. I still have a short temper and a long memory. But Stormi softened all that. She ain’t have to fix me. I wasn’t broken. But she gave me something real to protect. It gave me a reason to keep choosing peace even when war is second nature.
She leaned her head against my shoulder, and I kissed her crown soft. The same way Jo used to do when Shiloh decided to give his mom hell throughout the night.
“I got you,” I whispered, barely moving my lips. She squeezed my hand a little tighter, letting me know she heard me.
Right then, right there, even in the middle of all that pain, I knew we’d be okay. My wife was the most important thing in this world outside of my sons. And really, it was them and her that made me want to change. Not just talk about it. Not just pretend. Real change.
It was her time now. Stormi’s time for her to live really live. Time to breathe something other than trauma and heartbreak. I wanted her to see some good in this world, to know peace that didn’t feel borrowed or delayed. She deserved that.
S3 leaned into her side, melting into her as if he knew she needed the weight of something innocent, something still full of light. He wasn’t dumb, our boy felt energy, and he knew his mama needed him close. Shiloh, though. He peeped the shift in attention, and like clockwork, screamed like the world was ending. Little man flung himself back into one of his signature tantrums, arms windmilling like he was fighting off a ghost.
Rich looked over at him with that ‘really nigga’ stare, chin slightly up, eyes half lidded, expression saying loud as hell: “You gon’ pay for this when you get older.”
I smirked.
Stormi didn’t even hesitate. She scooped up Shiloh with practiced ease, kissing his curls and rocking him until his wails melted into little gasps. S3 didn’t move off her, though. Heleaned harder, like he was making sure he got his cut of her love too.
Even at her mama’s funeral, even when her whole damn world was crashing, Stormi still poured everything she had into those boys. I still loved them loud, gentle, and full. She was cracked, yeah, but never empty. That’s strength most people will never understand.
And watching her like that, man it hit me. I wasn’t doing enough. I gave her love, yeah. Stability, loyalty and respect. But it was time I poured more into my wife. Not just holding her up when she broke but fed into her spirit so maybe she didn’t have to fall so hard next time.
We all sat around the reception hall, and Jo’s people talking, eating, drinking. Laughter echoed too loud off the walls. Fake hugs. Side eye glances. The usual funeral mix of real grief and real performance.
Stormi had checked out fully. Her body was present, but her spirit was curled up somewhere private. Eyes glassy, lips slightly parted, just staring off into nowhere. Grief doesn’t ask for permission to take over it just does.
I was watching her, about to make my way over, when she looked up. And in that second, we locked eyes.
No words needed; she was ready. Her face didn’t move and mine didn’t either. But I saw it and felt it all in her body language. “Take me home.” And that’s all I wanted to do anyway.
I stood, already moving before I realized I was on my feet. Time to go. Time to get my wife away from the noise, the stares, the pity. Time to hold her like she holds all of us.
“Stormi, you leaving?” Noah questioned before she could stand fully and grab her purse.
“Yes,” she answered, drying her face.
“Why?” he pressed like he had a right to question everybody but himself.
“Why I’m going home?” Stormi asked, confused, like he’d lost his mind.
“Yeah, the repast still going on.”
“I’m done,” she said, like her decision was final. Then she walked straight into my arms.
“With the repast or with me?” Noah acted wounded, putting on that victim look. Always ready to make Stormi feel guilty for putting herself first.
“Everything is not about you, Noah,” I said before she could get any more irritated.
Noah ignored me and stared at his sister. He wanted answers. He wanted her to blame him. He needed her to feel bad so he could feel better. Yeah, I did some wrongs in my life too, but Noah’s bullshit cost this family too much. He was running headfirst into a dangerous world and getting firsthand lessons about how the streets don’t give second chances.
“What, Noah? I’m done. I’m leaving. I’m going home,” Stormi said it like it settled something between them.
“You blame me, don’t you? I can tell by the way you look at me,” he baited, waiting for the admission.
