I don’t argue. I follow her into the kitchen where the air is already thick with the smell of hot grease. Justine is sitting at the table, a bowl of fresh garden peas in front of her. She doesn’t look up as I sit across from her, but the tension in the room isn't as sharp as it was minutes ago. It’s been replaced by the rhythm of the kitchen.
For the next hour, we work in a choreographed silence I haven't experienced in years. I’m snapping peas until my thumbnails are stained green, Justine is rolling out biscuit dough, and Mommy is at the stove. It’s a far cry from the kale salads and lemon-water life I lived in Canada with Eli. Here, it’s fried pork chops, rice, and gravy that’s thick enough to fix a broken heart.
My mother starts battering the chops, the sizzle of the cast iron skillet filling the gaps in our conversation.
“You know,” she says, her back to us. “I used to have this dream for my girls. I used to make y’all play together every single day because I wanted you to get used to relying on each other when I wasn’t around. I wanted you to be best friends.”
I open my mouth to protest, to tell her“best friends”don't do the things we've done to each other, but she holds up a flour-dusted hand.
“I know,” she says softly. “I understand now, despite a mother's best intentions, things don't always work out the way you pictured them.”
The only sound in the room is the pop of the grease. I look at Justine. She’s staring hard at the biscuit cutter, her lower lip tucked between her teeth.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Justine says suddenly. The words are quiet, but in this kitchen, they sound like a gunshot. “I’ve been a pain. I haven’t appreciated the sacrifices you made to keep us going. I haven’t been showing up.”
My mom turns around, wiping her hands on her apron, watching her youngest.
Justine looks at us both then back to the dough in front of her. “I’ve been talking to a friend about going back to school,” Justine continues, her voice getting steadier. “I want to start being more of a help. I want to do better.”
Well color me surprised.
I keep my head down, snapping a pea pod with a decisivecrack. And damn-it if Eli’s voice and his words don’t slice through my stubbornness right now.
But then Justine turns to me. She doesn’t reach out, and she doesn’t give a long, dramatic speech.
“Max,” she says. I finally look up. Her eyes are clear, lacking the usual snark or defensive fire. “I’m sorry. For…everything. You’re my big sister. I really look up to you and the boss you’ve become. And…” she pauses. “I just want you to know that I love you.”
That’s it. But for Justine, that’s a damn dissertation.
I stare at her for a long beat. Part of me wants to demand a list. I want her to acknowledge the late nights, the bills, the years of me being the “strong one” while she got to be the baby. But as I look at her, I know Eli was right. My bitterness is the only thing keeping me from seeing what’s right in front of me. From peace.
It isn't a perfect apology. It isn't groundbreaking. But for the first time, it feels like Justine actuallygetsit. And because we share the same blood and the same history, she doesn’t have to say another word for me to know she means it.
The ice around my heart doesn't melt all at once, but it cracks. “Wash your hands, Jussie,” I say, sliding the bowl of peas toward the center of the table. “You’re getting flour on the table cloth.”
She offers a small, tentative smile, the first real one I’ve seen in years.
I wait until Mommy turns her back to check the oven, then I slip my phone out of my pocket. Then type out a text.
Max:I thought about what you said.You were right, Bear.
I hit send, the vibration of the outgoing message feeling like a weight lifting off my shoulders.
“No phones at the dinner table!” Justine yells, pointing a flour-coated finger at me. “Or you have to tell the worst thing you did this year!”
“Oh, I can guess what the worst thing Maxine did all year. Did you see that fine man that just walked out of here?” My mother exclaims.
“Mommy!” I groan.
Despite myself, a slow, genuine smile tugs at my lips. I’d forgotten about that rule. My mother instituted it during Sunday dinners when we were kids to keep us from bickering or being distracted. If we were caught with our phones at the dinner table, we had to tell the worst thing we did that year. Usually, the “worst thing” involved Justine confessing to stealing my clothes or me admitting I’d “lost” her favorite electronic toy—when I’d really just taken it apart and couldn’t put it back together.
“She’s right, Maxine,” my mother says, setting a platter of golden-brown pork chops on the table. “Rules are rules.”
Rules.
The memory of the rules that were made and broken at Eli’s come crashing into my mind.
“You’re right, Mommy. Rules are rules.”
