Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
GISELLE KORS
Birthdays. Holidays. The occasional guilt trip. That was my rhythm.
Mother and I barely talked on the phone, and when we did, it was surface-level at best. Still, I tried to make those visits just to show I cared a little—or more than I ever let on.
I pulled up in front of the house and stared at it, half-expecting it to collapse under the weight of its own stubbornness. But like Mother, it was still standing—weathered but unbothered.
“Why do I always feel like I’m pulling up to a funeral just to visit her?” I mumbled, fixing the oversized designer sunglasses perched on my face.
I sat in the car for another full minute, eyeing the neatly stacked gifts on the passenger seat.
That year, I went all out—again. I bought her a boxed luxury handbag, some silk scarves in rich earth tones, a high-end foot spa she’d never have to plug in, and a bottle of designer perfume that I knew she’d never spray on.
I already knew how that visit would go. Mother would probably turn them down, like she always did—polite refusal wrapped in passive judgment.
But I bought them anyway. Maybe because it looked expensive and smelled like the kind of woman I thought she should be.
Still, I knew she’d likely shake her head, mumble something about wasting money, and remind me that no bag, no matter how high-end, could replace a visit that felt genuine.
It was the thought that counted, right?
Like always, I promised myself that the visit would be quick .
In and out. Polite smiles. A gift bag with too much tissue paper. And silence where love used to live.
I glanced into the rearview mirror.
My makeup? Flawless. My hair? Bone-straight, pressed down to perfection.
“Alright,” I sighed, grabbing my purse and sliding on a pair of Loro Piana gloves—not for warmth, but to avoid touching anything directly.
As I stepped outside, the sharp sound of my heels clacked rhythmically against the sidewalk.
I had on a crisp white Alexander McQueen blouse, matching trousers, and chic heels that had never once stepped on cracked concrete.
After scanning my surroundings with a practiced eye, I checked behind me twice to ensure no one was lurking, then expertly balanced the stacked gifts in my arms, mimicking a waitress mastering the art of serving on a tray.
Just as I stepped onto the walkway, a sudden rush of movement caught my eye—a group of teenagers on bikes whizzed by, careening dangerously close, their laughter filling the air and momentarily stealing my focus.
“Mm-hmm,” I muttered. “Let me make sure my damn doors are locked.”
Click. Click.
I pressed the lock button on my car twice for good measure, even though the doors had already auto-locked with a soft click. I was about to enter the house when I heard a familiar voice calling out from across the street.
“Giselle? Is that you?”
With a reluctant sigh, I slowly turned around.
A woman with deep laugh lines and a pink headwrap stood on her porch waving.
Her old house dress was faded, slightly wrinkled and hung loosely on her slender frame.
I noticed rollers peeking out from beneath her scarf, adding a touch of nostalgia to her appearance.
It didn’t take long for me to recognize her as Shellie—an acquaintance from my youth, back when our lives intertwined in that sleepy neighborhood.
“Girl, I haven’t seen you in forever!” she exclaimed, an infectious cheerfulness in her voice that contrasted sharply with my current mood. “And don’t act like you don’t remember me! It’s me?—”
“Sorry, I don’t,” I cut in, forcing a cold smile. “I really don’t have time to chat. I’m here for a birthday visit.”
Shellie’s expression shifted to one of astonishment, her brows furrowing in surprise.
“Really? Well, fuck you too then, Miss Hollywood!” she shot back, her tone laced with indignation.
I turned back around, rolling my eyes dismissively at her words.
“I swear, everybody is still stuck in the same spot,” I muttered to myself as I approached the porch.
Despite my complex feelings about my mother’s home, I had to admit that the exterior looked surprisingly decent.
The grass had been neatly cut and the bushes were well-shaped, resembling miniature hedges that framed the path.
A new welcome mat lay at the entrance, its cheerful message reading, “Come in blessed, leave better.”
“Of course she’d have something like this at her doorstep,” I mumbled.
It was clean… and cared for. I guess that would do.
I knocked once, then let myself in like I always did.
“Ohhhhhhh, Mother!” I called out, setting the perfectly wrapped gifts on the brown coffee table.
The smell hit me immediately: something fried—probably chicken—mingling with the sharp, citrusy scent of lemon cleaner. It was the unmistakable aroma of her house; a familiar blend that had remained unchanged for the last twenty years, evoking a strange nostalgia.
I cringed at the living room setup. Lace doilies covered every surface like they were protecting priceless antiques—except there were no antiques, just chipped end tables and an old lamp with a crooked shade.
Faded family photos lined the walls, most in mismatched frames, some tilted like they’d given up trying to hang straight.
And those rust-colored curtains—they were still there, heavy and thick, bathing the room in a perennial dusk.
Mother washed them religiously to make sure they were free of dust and stains, but she stubbornly refused to replace them, insisting they “still had life.”
The television, a small 32-inch box from a bygone era, sat confidently on a bulky wooden stand like it was a 70-inch flat screen. Its volume was cranked up, blaring some courtroom drama—of course. Mother never missed her “stories,” even when they were real.
I glanced around and had to stop myself from sighing too loud.
Nothing was dusty, dirty, or out of place; it just wasn’t mine.
And maybe that was the problem .
At home, my living room was all glass and stone—neutral tones, minimalist lines, custom pieces flown in from Italy.
My TV was seventy-five inches and mounted so perfectly it looked like it grew out of the wall.
The floors were not only perfectly even, but they also lacked any creaks, leading to an enchanting, hushed environment.
In stark contrast, my mother's house decor was charmingly outdated, with a bowl of peppermints sitting on the coffee table—candies that likely hadn’t been replaced since Barack Obama was in office.
I loved my mother—I really did—but every time I stepped in her house, I felt like I was walking into a thrift store basement or a preserved memory she refused to let go of.
Mother finally came around the corner smiling—until she saw me.
“Well, if it isn’t my holiday and birthday visitor.” That was her sarcastic greeting.
Mother wiped her hands on a towel like she’d been elbow-deep in something greasy.
“Happy birthday, Mother!” I expressed, stepping into our usual routine of two air kisses, cheek to cheek.
I pulled back and eyed her outfit.
A faded purple muumuu hung off her like a curtain barely clinging to a rod. It was printed with sunflowers, one sleeve sliding lower than the other, and her house shoes were those fuzzy leopard-print ones with the heel nearly flattened from years of wear.
“You look… comfortable,” I said, forcing a smile.
Mother grinned like she’d won a prize.
“As a pair of fur slippers. Plus, I’m breathing and fashion never paid my bills, made me happy or kept me breathing—so I’ll take it.”
We sat down, and I barely made it two minutes before I lost my composure.
“Mother, I can’t take this!” I exclaimed, scanning the room in horror. “You still got that same couch with the plastic on it. Why won’t you let me hire a decorator?”
She rolled her eyes and crossed one leg over the other, which made the muumuu shift in ways it shouldn’t have.
“I already had this discussion with Imanio, so now I’m telling you.
Unless this house catches fire, floods, or gets picked up by a tornado sent by God himself, I ain’t moving.
And even then, I might just ride it out in the bathtub with my Bible and a pork chop.
Lastly, I'm sure as hell not having some strangers rearranging my house. It’s fine just the way it is.
If you don’t like it, you can leave—or just sit in misery. ”
“All I’m saying is, why would you want to live like this… by choice? When you don’t have to. I’ll pay for the move. I’ll buy you a new place. Somewhere with gates… amenities… privacy. At least a neighborhood where people aren’t barbecuing on the front lawn.”
She snorted. “And what’s wrong with that? I remember when you used to volunteer to help with the sides.”
“That was decades ago, Mother,” I muttered, smoothing out my top like it had collected dust just from sitting on her couch. “Times have changed.”
She raised a brow. “You mean you changed. Ain’t nothing wrong with barbecuing on the lawn… that’s community.”
I sighed, crossing my legs tighter, careful not to touch the sticky remnants left on the end table from her last crafting project.
“Some of us just want better, Mother. We aspire for more than just hot dogs and potato salad.”
“And some of us already have what we need,” she shot back. “You keep trying to upgrade me like I’m a phone on a contract. I’m not. I’m your mama, and I won't be sold for a newer model.”
Her words snapped through the air—clean, cutting, and impossible to argue with.
The room fell into stillness and was interrupted by profusive knocks on the door.
I groaned. “Please don’t let that be somebody else who remembers me from twenty years ago.”
Mother shook her head, her earlier irritation vanishing as she beamed at the door.
“Well, if it isn’t Renee! My favorite headache,” she declared, a sparkle of joy lighting up her eyes.
I rolled my eyes in annoyance, cringing inwardly.