“Oh,” her mother says stiffly. “Zai?—”
Zaria straightens.
“It’s Zaria.”
The correction hangs in the air like a blade. They don’t apologize. Don’t show a lick of love or remorse. They don’t ask my name and they appear extremely irritated to see her.
“Oh,” her mother says stiffly. “Come in.”
Not warm. Not welcoming. Just…procedural. We step inside. The inside of the home is starkly different the outside. While clean and pristine—smelling of lemon polish—it’s outdated and says the wealth that once was is no longer.
They don’t offer us drinks. Don’t offer seats. They gesture vaguely toward the sitting room like they want to get this over with. Her father doesn’t waste time. He clears his throat before we’ve fully settled.
“We won’t keep you long,” he says briskly. “I know you’re both busy.”
Translation: We don’t want you here long.
Zaria’s spine straightens. “Then let’s get straight to it,” she replies evenly.
Her father nods as if this is a business meeting. I stare at him. I’m sure the loathing is etched on my face.
“I’ve heard you’re connected to some influential people in Winston Hills.”
There it is. No small talk. No acknowledgment. No apology.
Just transaction.
He continues, as if we’re at a networking brunch.
“I’ve been attempting to secure a position at Winston Hills Memorial. I was hoping you might know someone who works there and put in a good word.”
Zaria goes completely still beside me. Her face turns to stone. She’s not angry. Her face holds no emotion. She seems accepting. Accepting of the face that she’ll never get the love and acceptance she deserves from them.
For a moment, she just looks at them. Years of abandonment sitting behind her eyes.
“You abandoned me when I transitioned,” she says quietly. “You refuse to call me by the correct name. You didn’t even bother to show up to any of my graduations.”
Silence.
“But you call me when you need something. To make it worst, you don’t even have enough wherewithal to pretend to respect and accept me to get what you need from me. Even in need you disrespect me!” Her voice now raised.
Her mother shifts uncomfortably. “That’s not fair?—”
“It’s very fair,” Zaria replies.
Her voice doesn’t raise this time.
It sharpens.
“You erased me for years. Acted like I was an embarrassment. Like I didn’t exist. And now you want proximityto powerful people that have grown to love and adore me for nothing more than being myself?”
Her father’s face tightens.
“You are an embarrassment! You were supposed to follow in my footsteps. Carry on the family name.”
She laughs maniacally. “If this old ass house is where those footsteps would’ve landed me—I’m glad I walked in a different direction.”
That’s when I step forward and extend my hand calmly. “Dr. Calil Black.”
