Chapter 18 #3
She laughed. “You sound like your nasty-ass granddaddy! Lord, rest his trifling soul. But back to my side hustle. You know, I’ve been thinking about some names for it. You know—making it official for tax season.”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin, already grinning, bracing myself for whatever wild, half-serious, half-hilarious names she was about to drop.
“Oh yeah? What you got?”
Mama Rose held up three fingers, as if about to recite a list of commandments.
“ Hood it just buys prettier lies,” Mama Rose pointed out. “But enough about her. How are you ?” she asked, and that time her tone dropped that playful edge. She was serious now.
I paused, swirling the last of my tea. “I’m good,” I replied with a shrug.
Grandma tilted her head slowly, eyes narrowing like she was reading every crack in my soul.
“Boy, don’t sit here and lie to me like I ain’t the one who potty-trained you and prayed over you in the same breath. I know when something is off. It’s written all over your face!”
I let out a low chuckle, but it didn’t last long.
I pushed my plate to the side, rubbed the back of my neck, then looked at her and told her everything, from the murder Naji saw, to the kidnapping, the rushed marriage, her condition, her tics, the way she barely looked at me at first, the fear in her eyes when she first arrive, and how I told myself it was for protection—but somewhere along the way, it started to feel like something else… something heavier.
I talked, and Mama Rose listened; never interrupted.
When I finished, all she could do was shake her head real slow, lips pursed in that disappointed way that made me feel like a little boy again—the same boy who once broke her favorite glass fruit bowl trying to juggle pears like a fool.
Mama Rose leaned back and wiped her hands on her apron like she was wiping off the weight of the whole conversation.
Then she let out a long, exasperated, “Mmm-mmm-mmm. Lord have mercy,” she added.
“So let me get this straight—you kidnapped that poor baby, married her like that, and now she’s living up in your house scared half to death?
Ticcin’ and twitching like her nervous system done walked through a minefield barefoot.
And she used to be on magazine covers, you say?
Glamorous, strutting across stages, doing interviews?
Now she’s crying in your guest room, probably talking to the Lord through the vents ‘cause she don’t trust you enough to pray out loud? ”
I didn’t say a word.
“Grandson, that girl doesn’t need a mansion and fancy sheets,” she went on.
“She needs peace… peace and honesty. And based on what you just told me, she ain't had either since the day she met you. That girl lost her freedom the day she saw something she wasn’t supposed to, and instead of making her feel like she gained a husband, you made her feel like she gained a warden. That isn’t love or protection, Imanio; that’s fear with a gold band around it.
I bet that poor girl doesn’t even get a good night’s rest. She probably flinches when you walk in the room.
And not ‘cause you’re a bad man, but because you’re so busy trying to protect her—or yourself—that you forgot to see her.
Imanio, sometimes protecting somebody doesn’t mean keeping them locked up close; it means making sure they feel truly safe.
There's a difference. Hmph. I love you, grandson, but you sound more like her storm than her shelter.”
That hit me in the chest harder than I expected.
“Some days I wonder if I made the right decision. Like, if marrying her, hell, kidnapping her, was the best thing to do. I really didn’t take out the time to think how it would not only affect her, but me.
Like, can I really handle her condition?
And what about my career? Not so much my image. But you get what I’m saying.”
“I do. But she’s not a problem to manage, Imanio; she’s a person…
a delicate one at that. And I’m not talking about her disorder; I’m talking about her soul.
The girl is in a situation she didn’t ask to be in.
So before you go talking about your career or your image, maybe think about the fact that you chose her.
You kidnapped her. It was your decision for you two to get married.
That wasn’t something that just happened.
You orchestrated it. You made a move—one that changed her whole damn life.
The child was probably already going through enough, just trying to stay out the public eye and hold herself together.
She might’ve even had a little peace before you came along. But now?”
She shook her head.
“Now you done dragged her into a life full of cameras, critics, and chaos. And baby? That kind of noise? That ain’t just stressful; it’s the very thing that pokes at her condition in the worst way.”
Mama Rose pointed her fork at me.
“And now… everything you do, everything you say, everything you don’t say matters ten times more than it ever did. She’s scared, Imanio. She’s unsure. And if you ever— ever —make that baby feel like she’s a mistake or a burden…” she scoffed “…then you ain’t the man I raised.”
She let that sit for a second, then continued.
“You’re sitting here like you did her or yourself a favor, but all I hear is you gave her a brand-new trauma to unpack. The girl is already fighting her own body every minute of the day, now she gotta fight your silence too?”
I lifted my head and looked into the eyes of the woman who had always kept it real with me—even when it hurt.
Mama Rose wasn’t judging, sugarcoating, nor did she come at me with anger; she came with truth—the kind that cuts deep because it’s too real to argue with.
She was just doing what she’d always done: holding up a mirror so I could face what I’d been trying to avoid.
And sitting there, listening to her, I couldn’t lie to myself.
I felt like shit… like I’d let somebody down who needed me whole.
She eached across the table and placed her warm hand over mine, and squeezed my hand.
“Now… I ain’t saying you don’t care, baby.
I know you do because I didn’t raise you not to care in situations like this.
But feelings without action doesn’t mean much.
You got a good heart, Imanio; you just got it buried under a lotta concrete and trauma.
Let her see what’s under all that. All I have to say is, you better figure out how to show her you— the real you —before she gets strong enough to walk away…
even if that means risking her life to do it. ”
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t have a slick response or a confident plan. All I had was truth and the terrifying feeling that if I didn’t change something soon, I was gonna lose the one person I didn’t even know I needed until she was almost gone.
I nodded, quiet for a second longer than I meant to be.
“You sound like Ms. Shirley. You know, y’all could be sisters almost,” were my following words.
“Good,” she said. “Ms. Shirley’s wise… and lowkey gangster. You should listen to both of us.”
I chuckled. “I appreciate your advice, though, Grandma. I’ma fix this with me and Naji. I promise.”
“That’s what Grandmothers are for. But you better.”
Then came the knock at the door, followed by a loud, unmistakable voice that could only belong to one woman.
Auntie Renee.
“Mama! You got this house smelling like tax season and Thanksgiving at the same time!” she hollered from the living room.
Mama Rose shook her head before muttering, “Lord, why didn’t I hide the food and possibly the smell?”
I chuckled.
Seconds later, she made her presence known in the kitchen.
Auntie Renee was tall and slim. That day she was rocking leopard leggings, red press-ons sharp enough to slice brisket, and a half-wig that had no business looking that good—but somehow did.
She carried an attitude like body spray from the hair store—loud, bold, and guaranteed to follow you all the way home.
“Speak of the devil, and she park in your driveway,” Mama Rose said with a smirk.
“Oh hush, Mama!”