Or did he see what I saw—resilience, community, the kind of love that survived when money couldn’t?
“There,” I said, pointing. “The yellow one with the blue shutters.”
Amai pulled up to the curb and put the car in park.
And that’s when I heard it.
Music.
Zydeco pouring out of a Bluetooth speaker on the porch railing—accordion and washboard and that rhythm that made your hips move whether you wanted them to or not.
Laughter.
Mama’s voice rising above the rest, loud and sharp and full of that particular brand of shit-talking that only came out when she was winning at dominoes.
And the smell.
God, thesmell.
Crawfish.
Boiling in a massive pot set up on a propane burner in the front yard. The scent of cayenne, garlic, lemon, bay leaves, and Old Bay seasoning hit me so hard my mouth instantly started watering.
I looked out the window.
Mama was in the front yard with Miss Claudette from next door, Mr. Jerome from across the street, and Mama’s best friend Rochelle. They had a folding table set up under the oak tree, dominoes spread across the worn wood, and red Solo cups sweating in the heat.
Mama was wearing her good wig—the one she saved for company—and a purple tank top that saidI’m Not Arguing, I’m Just Explaining Why I’m Rightin gold glitter letters.
She looked happy.
Relaxed in a way she hadn’t been in months.
And then she saw the car.
Her head turned. Her eyes narrowed.
And I watched her entire face shift fromhaving a good timetowho the hell is this pulling up to my house in a car that’s probably stolen.
“Oh, no,” I whispered.
Amai glanced at me. “Problem?”
“My mama,” I said. “She’s-she’s gonna?—”
But it was too late.
Mama was already walking toward the car, dominoes forgotten, her eyes locked on the Mercedes like she was about to perform an exorcism on it.
Amai turned off the engine.
“Stay here,” I said quickly. “I’ll just?—”
But he was already opening his door.
“Amai, wait?—”
He stepped out of the car, smooth and unbothered, and I watched my mama stop in her tracks.
