“Your son doesn’t listen to his mother,” I declared.
“Stretch!”he bellowed.“You best be listening to yourmother.”
“Right, Dad!”Stretch shouted from somewhere, probablymaking trouble, and definitely lying.
Shouting in my house.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.
Annamae giggled and it sounded like bells.
I rolled my eyes to my girl.
I loved that sound.
Even so.
“This isn’t funny, honey bunches of oats,” I told her.
“It’s hilarious, Momma,” she replied, her finger in hernecklace, not twisting, just looping around.
My girl loved her pearls.
I knew this because she’d worn them every day since the dayher daddy and I gave them to her.
Marcus came into the room, took his daughter in the curve ofhis arm, and kissed the top of her head.
Having done that, he looked to me.
“Are you cooking or am I?”he asked.
Had he lost his mind?
What kind of question was that?
“Whose house is this?”I asked back.
“Ours,” he answered.
Okay, he was right about that.
“Whose kitchen is it?”I went on.
He grinned and pulled his baby girl closer.“Yours.”
“Then who’s cooking?”
“Darling, get on with it.Your family’s hungry.”
“I’mgivin’ Southern woman lessonsto my daughter,comprende?”
“She gives them to me, like, every day,” Annamae whisperedto her daddy.
“I don’t want you to forget,” I shot at her.
“Momma, if a boy doesn’t open my door for me,Daddy’llbreak his legs andStretch’llshoot him.You got nothing to worry about.”Her grin got cheeky as sheconcluded, “Comprende?”
Icomprende’dbecausethat was probably the sorry truth.
