“Solé, don’t you ever get lonely, baby girl?” she questioned softly.
The question rang heavier than she intended, and we both felt it. The room seemed to hush, like even the lamp knew not to flicker. I looked at her, . . . this woman who raised me together with my granddaddy and daddy, who taught me how to braid, how to pray, and how to keep a home steady, even when the world wasn’t. She was the only family I had left. Of course, I didn’t want her worrying about me.
“I have you, and that’s plenty,” I said, reaching for her hand.
Her smile held, but grief shadowed it. “You remind me so much of your mama,” she murmured. “She was a breath of fresh air, even when life tried to smother her.” NanNan’s thumb stroked my knuckles, slow and steady. “And you deserve more than the routine you’ve turned into a cage. You even sound like her. She used to fuss at me about ‘not needing anybody.’”
NanNan’s eyes drifted toward my dresser for a second, toward Daddy’s quote, and her voice softened.
“I told her what I’m telling you. Life’s too short to stay comfortable.” She inhaled. “She listened, . . . and that’s when she met your daddy.”
The irony stung. The world handed my mama a love that finally felt safe, then stole it back, as if joy had a limit. I hated how grief made blessings feel borrowed, how love could be undeniable and still not last. Still, I heard what NanNan was insisting on beneath the ache: love found us once, and it could find me, too.
I smiled to myself, thinking about my parents and the love they shared, wanting the same thing for myself one day. Wanting it without feeling guilty for wanting it.
“I’m not trapped,” I said, though my voice lacked the conviction I wanted it to have.
NanNan’s mouth curved like she heard what I didn’t say. “Then live a little. Go out with that funny little friend of yours. What’s her name again? Maleficent? Wait. That ain’t right, is it?” She chuckled, knowing she’d butchered my bestie’s name unintentionally.
I laughed, a real laugh from the depths of my soul. NanNan had a knack for calling things the wrong name like it was her ministry, and it was always funny. She reminded me of Barbara fromAbbot Elementary, serious and silly in the same breath.
“Y’all two need to find some trouble,” she continued, patting my hand. “Go out, dance, live a little. Lord knows she’d drag you outta that classroom if she could.”
That made me smile. “Mel is always trying to play matchmaker. She swears I’m allergic to fun.”
“Exactly! Let her be your antidote. You are a breath of fresh air, baby, just like your mama. Let that girl drag you out the house. Let somebody love on you the way Simeon loves on that girl in your book you always reading repeatedly.”
My cheeks warmed, and I looked away, suddenly shy like she hadn’t just read me perfectly.
“Stop telling yourself it’s too much, too soon, or too complicated,” NanNan teased, patting my hand.
“You’ve been carrying grief like it’s your job. You can lay it down sometimes. God ain’t gon’ be offended if you laugh.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just squeezed her hand again, holding on to her warmth like it was medicine. “Let me go start dinner, okay? I’ll make something light for you.”
She patted my leg. “You’re a good girl, baby. Too good sometimes.”
Caring for her had settled into reflex, an instinct written into my body. It lived in my hands, in how I listened for her steps, kept her water close, counted her pills with steady tenderness so it never felt like a weight. It was love, yes, but it was also fear—fear of losing the last living thread of my family.
By the time I made it to the kitchen, the air filled with the sweet scent of rosemary and garlic. I’d already started dinner—baked chicken, string beans, and mashed potatoes—something soft enough for NanNan’s appetite. I moved through the motions on autopilot—season, stir, taste, adjust, and pray it’s right.
Sunlight spilled over the countertops, glinting off spice jars and the stack of graded papers waiting for me. Between stirringthe pot and checking the oven, my eyes kept drifting to my planner—testing next week, essays still calling my name.
My love for them never dimmed—through the laughter, the pushback, the days they crumbled under a world that demanded grown from kids still becoming. I carried them in everything, even now, while I measured seasoning and kept one eye on NanNan’s pill schedule.
One day, I wanted a place where struggling students, especially kids with learning differences, could exhale without judgment: an after-school tutoring center built for grace, not pressure. I kept drafting the dream in the margins of my planner because my goals always lived on the edges of my responsibilities. That was my pattern—build for everybody, postpone myself.
The hum of the oven, the flicker of candles on the counter, and the faint gospel playing from NanNan’s tablet made the house feel alive. After dinner, I cleaned up, brewed her nightly cup of chamomile tea, and kissed her forehead good night. Her skin was warm. Her eyes were tired. She held my hand for an extra second before letting go, and that extra second felt like an unspoken prayer. I went back to my planner to go over my checklist.
Wednesday:
– Take NanNan to Dr. Robinson.
– Tutoring group after school.
– Pick up new coffee beans for The Pour House.
The list went on, neat lines and little boxes, a reflection of how much of myself I gave away daily. Somewhere between all those checkboxes, I forgot to make space for myself. Not onpurpose. Not out of neglect. But out of habit, grief, and a quiet belief that if I stopped moving, I would feel everything at once.
