Page 16 of The Wright Man

The house looked smaller than I remembered. White paint peeling on the trim. Rust on the iron rail. Grass patchy and yellowed from the early heat.

My chest went tight as the porch creaked under my weight.

Mama used to sit out here, not a strand of hair out of place, not a speck of makeup smudged, coffee cup in hand. Talking shit to neighbors and hyping up clients walking up her steps for a sew-in or a silk press like they were auditioning for America's Next Top Model.

"Yes, walk it out, girl! I see you with that fresh touch-up!"

I swallowed the memory down and put the key in the lock.

The door groaned open, like the house had to think about it before it remembered me.

Inside smelled like dust and lemon oil. Not fresh. But not dead either. The cleaning service I hired had been through, just like I asked. Left the place clean but untouched. Everything felt like it had paused in time, waiting on me to press play.

The floor creaked when I moved past the rug, same as it used to when I'd sneak into the kitchen for late-night cereal after Mama went to bed. I looked over my shoulder like she might still be there, ready to pop me with a dishrag.

She wasn't. Of course she wasn't.

But the house felt... aware.

I ran a hand along the wall. Not soft. Not gentle. Just enough to say: I see you. I remember.

There were ghosts in this place. Not the scary kind, but the kind that laughed loud and called you a "greedy ass" while making fried catfish at 10 p.m. just because you said you were hungry. The kind that gave the warmest hugs, right when you needed them, even if you hadn't said anything. The kind that braided your hair, fed you, loved you—and everyone else—even when you didn't know how to let them.

And they were in every room. Faint, but almost tangible, like they were burned into the air.

In the living room, I saw Mama, crouched beside the coffee table, foundation brush in hand, fussing at an 18-year-old Tina for not sitting still while she blended.

"Sweet Tee, I love you, but I swear if you flinch again, I'mma beat that face AND your ass."

In the kitchen, the fridge still buzzed like it was overworked. I'd memorized the sound while icing my knuckles with frozen peas after a fight. Mama just shook her head and said, "You gone learn someday, Shrimp."

I stepped through the hallway and peeked into my old room. It was untouched for the most part. I could practically feel my teenage rage vibrating in the walls. The punching bag Kareem rigged for me out of an old mattress. The posters Tina taped up to "cute it up" without asking. The teddy bear Bella gave me after Mama died and said, "You need this more than I do."

I kept moving until I reached the front of the house again. I saved Mama's favorite spot for last.

The den.

Where she used to read her books and drink her coffee, where Kareem used to get roasted for his bushy ass braids, and Mama used to force everybody into "family game night" even when half of us wanted to be anywhere else.

I could almost hear Kareem's voice yelling, "BOOM! UNO out, baby!"

Kareem.

I swallowed that lump before it could rise.

Not today. Soon, but not today.

I stood there in the quiet. Let it wash over me. Let it ache a little.

I headed back to the front of the house, but the quiet didn't follow.

As if the memories of Mama and Kareem weren't bittersweet enough, every room still hummed with pieces of her.

Angel.

The hallway still echoed with her laughter—high and bright, bouncing off the walls like sunlight through a screen door.

The bathroom mirror still remembered the steam from her long-ass showers, which she took at my house whenever her sisters used all the hot water at theirs.