His lips curved.“Yeah, they are.”
Liam sauntered in.“What’s for dinner?”
“What’s for dinner is you getting on the corn, son,” Dariusordered.“The cast iron skillet.Melt the butter.Medium heat.Pour in thewhole bag of frozen corn when it’s melted.Salt and lots of pepper.And watchthat shit.I don’t want it burning.And let’s get a move on.You gotta get tothe field.”
Liam had a game that night, and Darius was right.We werecutting it close.
“Gotcha,” Liam said, heading for a drawer and pulling out aLe Creuset skillet that had a matte blue around the outside.
“What can I do?”I asked.
“Drink wine,” Darius answered.
It hit me then, like a bullet.
All this spoiling.No lugging suitcases and shopping bags orrunning out into the cold to get the purse and keys I left in my car my ownself.
This wasn’t Darius making up for lost time, going the extramile to show he was a protector and provider.
This was Mister Morris.
Miss Dorothea wasA Mom, in caps, through andthrough.She cooked.She kept her house immaculate.She checked homework.Shedid school runs.
But she did not carry the groceries from the car.
She didn’t even waste a trip and bring in the first load.
She came in with her purse, and Mister Morris or Darius wentto get the groceries, not a word spoken, it just happened.
And Danni nor Gabby did that kind of thing.
Just Mister Morris or Darius.
Back then, I thought it was sweet.
Now, I got it.
I got all of it.
Including the drug dealing.
Mister Morris was a protector and a provider.
He taught his son that.
And the way he did, it was by any means necessary.
I didn’t realize I was staring at my man until he asked,“What?”
I jerked myself out of it and took in his beloved face.
There was only one thing I could say.
So I said it.
“I love you.”
His expression grew soft.I noted out of the corner of myeye our son ducked his head.
