Her hair is pulled back tight, a few new streaks of gray twisting through the black, and her eyes, sharp and knowing, go wide as she sees me.
“Baby?” she says, like she’s not sure if I’m a ghost or a real thing. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
I try to smile, but it probably looks more like a wince. “Didn’t want to make a thing of it. Figured you might be out.”
She laughs, the sound low and a little dangerous. “You know better. I’m always here.”
She’s at the top of the steps in three seconds, pulling me into a hug so fierce it cracks my spine.
Her hands cup my face, checking my jaw, my temples, running over the short hair like she’s expecting to find a wound that wasn’t there before.
She steps back, studies me. “You look tired, Darius.”
“Long night,” I say.
She just raises an eyebrow, then grabs my bag and drags me inside, like maybe if she gets me behind closed doors fast enough, the world won’t be able to mess with me.
The house is exactly the same: narrow hall, creaky floorboards, living room full of mismatched furniture that she claims “has character.”
There are two framed pictures of me in high school on the mantle, plus one of us at Lake Merritt, me all knees and elbows, her grinning with an ice cream cone that’s melting down her wrist.
The kitchen is clean, which is new, and the table is set for one, a book splayed open next to a mug of tea.
She pours me a glass of water and sets it in front of me. “You hungry?”
I shake my head, but she puts a pot on the stove anyway, because some things are not up for debate.
She moves around the kitchen like she’s running a drill, chopping onions, slicing peppers, pulling leftover rice from the fridge and breaking eggs into a bowl with one hand.
It’s comforting, this choreography. I watch her in silence, just breathing in the smell of sauté and spice, letting the sound of her humming under her breath fill the space.
She doesn’t ask why I’m here. Not yet. She waits until the eggs are in the pan, until the first forkful is on my plate, until I’ve taken a bite and can’t talk around it.
Then, casual as anything, “How’s the team?”
“Good,” I say. “Coach has us on a tight schedule. Next round’s in a week.”
She nods. “You playing?”
I almost laugh. “Can’t keep me out of the net.”
She smiles, pleased. “That’s my boy.”
She lets it hang for a minute, then, “Seattle treating you okay? You need money?”
“I’m fine,” I say, and I mean it. The league pays better than any of us deserve, even if you’re bottom tier.
She pours herself more tea, sits opposite me, and props her chin on her fist. “You sleeping?”
I think about lying, but she’s not the type you can fool. “Some,” I say. “Not much.”
She gives me a look, equal parts pity and challenge. “You’ll tell me if you need help?”
I nod, but my eyes don’t meet hers.
The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. She gets up, wipes her hands, and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “Eat. You look like a skeleton.”
She goes to the living room, makes a phone call in French, probably to my grandmother, keeps her voice low so I won’t overhear.
