18. Emotional Inheritance
Chapter eighteen
Emotional Inheritance
Nyomi
I was dreaming again, but it was not the kind of dream where I flew, kissed, or fell forever. It was a memory that always began the same way—late at night, in my old childhood home.
I must’ve been six.
Old enough to know better.
Still awake when I shouldn’t have been.
But there I was, bare feet on the cool hardwood, tiptoeing out from the hallway shadows, breath held in my throat so it wouldn’t betray me.
My mother sat in her favorite old green rocking chair, the one that groaned just a little on every other rock. Grandma had gotten it for her long ago to use while breastfeeding me.
My mother wasn’t in her usual white blouse and long white skirt this time.
Tonight, she wore a slip dress the color of ripe strawberries with thin straps sliding off her shoulders and the satin hugging every curve. Her legs were bare, smooth and oiled, one tucked under her while the other rocked gently against the hardwood floor.
A black silk robe draped open over her shoulders. The sleeves slipped down a little more each time the chair creaked.
The living room was dim, lit only by the soft blue lamp in the corner and the halo of moonlight spilling through the window.
My mother’s face glowed in that light. This was how I realized she’d done her face too—soft blush, glossy lips, lashes curled just enough to catch the lamp light when she blinked.
Her perfume lingered in the air—floral and sweet.
She wasn’t dressed for sleep.
She was dressed to be seen.
Billie Holiday played softly on the record player in the corner. A whisper of vinyl crackled, then that voice—raspy and holy—came out, making the moment more haunting.
The song was You’ve Changed . I didn’t know the words then, not really, but I understood the sound of someone trying to hold onto a love that had already slipped through their fingers.
It wasn’t a song you played when you were angry. It was the kind you played when you’d stopped begging and started grieving—when you’d accepted the silence but still dressed up just in case the door opened.
Billie wasn’t accusing him in that song. She was mourning the version of her man that used to look at her with fire in his eyes and touch her with hunger in his hands.
I never liked that song.
Not even when I was older and understood the brilliance of Billie.
She was sick when she recorded the song.
Addicted.
Alone.
Dying.
Haunted.
They say she poured herself into that album like it was the last thing she had to give. And it was. She died less than a year later. Lady in Satin was her goodbye.
And still—my mother played it all the time. Perhaps, she thought the sadness in Billie’s voice understood her better than anyone else.
My mother sat with her head tilted slightly toward the fogging window, rocking slowly.
The book on her lap was The Bell Jar , spine cracked, face down. Sylvia Plath’s words absorbed in the satin of her dress.
And there she was. . .my mother.
Rocking.
Back.
And forth.
Humming the chorus under her breath.
And I knew, in that eerie, marrow-deep way only a child could, that she was waiting for him .
For the man who should have come home hours ago.
So young and not understanding what was going on. . .still silent tears rolled hot down my cheeks as I remained in the shadows.
I remember wanting to whisper, “Mommy. . .”
But kept quiet because for some reason I always thought. . .
If I speak, I might break her.
It was always that sort of feeling throughout those years.
No one told me that she would break, but I just assumed that. . .I had to be quiet, careful, and low-maintenance. I didn’t know what age it happened, but I realized that my sadness was less urgent than hers, and that my mother’s heart was always. . . his .
There was only so much of her to go around.
Even when she held me, part of her was waiting.
Waiting for footsteps.
Waiting for headlights in the driveway.
Waiting for a man who rarely came home on time.
Then, in the dream. . .someone suddenly whispered from the opposite direction, “Ms. Palmer. . .”
The voice came from down the hallway.
Low.
Careful.
Male.
But, it wasn’t my daddy’s voice or anyone else I remembered.
Curious, I wiped my face quickly with the back of my hand, smearing tears against my cheek as I turned from the view of my mother in the rocking chair next to the window.
The voice came again, closer now. “Ms. Palmer. . .”
The sound hovered in the dark. I had to know who was there and why they were calling my mother. My feet padded forward on the cool wood. The hallway was long, longer than it had ever been in real life.
“Ms. Palmer. . .”
My stomach tightened.
My breath caught as the hallway darkened even more, and the air turned sharp and cold.
The voice repeated, still gentle, but now more insistent. “Ms. Palmer. . .”
The dark rippled.
The floor beneath me gave way.
And just like that. . .I woke up, opening my eyes.
What?
Golden beams poured through the curved glass. Outside, the sea glittered like it was made of diamonds.
Still, the dream clung to my chest like damp lace.
My hands were curled under my chin, and I was lying on my side, still halfway tangled in the sheets. For a second, I didn’t move. I just blinked, trying to remember where I was, how far I’d come, and why my heart felt like it had been scraped raw in the night.
I wasn’t six anymore. I wasn’t barefoot in a quiet house filled with perfume and grief.
I was here, in the Dragon’s bed.
The cherry blossom tree stood quiet in its black stone planter. A soft breeze from the ventilation system lifted its petals.
The curved windows offered a view of the world I didn’t think I’d ever earn. A private sea. A sky like brushed gold.
All around me was elegance. Black sheets. Deep red silk. A low table with a decanter of amber whiskey that looked untouched.
My copy of When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon was opened right in front of me on the bed.
My fingers rested on the page where Korin had been carrying Sol into some space to meet his twin brother.
A man cleared his throat behind me. “Ms. Palmer. . .”
Oh.
In the dream, I had thought someone had been calling for my mother, but he had been calling me.
What the hell?
The silk sheets rustled as I sat up, turned around, and found Sako standing beside the bed with an unreadable expression on his face.
“Oh.” I yawned. “Good morning.”
He gave me a soft nod. “I am so sorry to wake you, but your friends have insisted that I do.”
“Friends?”
“Mr. Zo and Ms. Hiroko—”
“Oh. Yes. My friends.”
“Ms. Palmer—”
“You can just call me Nyomi.” I rubbed my eyes. “Give me one minute please. I’m still waking up. My head is a bit foggy.”
“Of course, Nyomi.”
I stretched a little and then looked to the other side of the bed. It hadn’t been touched. Not one wrinkle. The black silk remained taut and smooth, the pillows untouched. Not even an indent in the sheets.
I looked back at Sako. “Did Kenji come to bed?”
Sako clasped his hands in front of him. “No.”
“No?” I echoed, trying to sound casual, but it came out too soft.
Sako hesitated just a moment too long. “The Dragon was. . .busy.”
“Busy?”
“Yes.”
That was it. Just yes . But something in the way he said it made me pause. There were layers in that word— busy . It felt deliberate. Chosen with care. Too neutral to be innocent.
What the fuck did I sleep through?
Sako cleared his throat and adjusted the cuff of his white linen sleeve.
“Your friends have been standing at the door since this morning. I tried to encourage them to return later, but they were quite adamant. It is now the afternoon and Mr. Zo, in particular, has threatened the staff—multiple times.”
My eyebrows lifted. “Zo threatened your staff?”
“He said he would start flashing people and causing chaos.”
That sounded odd being that Zo was the biggest scaredy cat I knew. I couldn’t see him threatening the staff of a Yakuza boss, unless. . .
I smirked.
Hiroko. She got him to say that, Interesting. Why does she want me awake right now?
Sako spoke, “Mr. Zo claims it’s an emergency and that it involved 'Royal black girl priorities.'”
“Wow.” I blinked. “That sounds like Zo. Alright. You can tell them to come in. Sorry that he bothered you. I’ll talk to him. That won’t be happening again.”
“Thank you, Nyomi.” Sako bowed and rushed off.
Sighing, I swung my legs off the bed, letting my toes sink into the soft tatami mat beneath me. The weight of the dream still lingered, thick in my ribs. But now something else layered over it—disorientation.
Kenji hadn’t come to bed.
I had fallen asleep alone.
And I’d woken up many hours later. . . still alone.
Not even a crease in the pillow.
No scent.
No warmth.
Just the silence of someone who never showed up. And it was that silence that made the room feel too large, too beautiful, too curated. Like a showroom I’d been placed in, not a space built for intimacy.
Like the dream had followed me here after all.
Fuck. . .
That version of my mother, all dressed up and still alone, waiting for a man who didn’t come home. It hit me harder now since Kenji was not in the bed.
You’re not your mother. Things are different. Don’t go there.
I breathed in and out.
But. . .why did I have that dream again? Was it a warning or a message? Why can’t I stop thinking of that stupid moment during my childhood?
It always came to me in odd times in my life.
That dream.
That hallway.
That damned sad view of my mother with the heartbreaking song.
That little girl who thought her sadness wasn’t urgent because her mother’s was always louder.
I swallowed.
There were lessons a woman learned in childhood that she didn’t realize she even learned until years later. Lessons that crept in the heart and stayed long after she had forgotten who first said them or what had happened to make her think that way.
Some things a person doesn’t have to be told to believe—they just graft into the spine.
That memory. . .that night became a scripture writing within me. A gospel of lessons I didn’t know I was reciting all my life:
Women wait in beauty.
Men forget to come home.
Love is abandonment.
And music becomes confession when no one is listening.
That was what I saw as a little girl. That was what I learned. Not because my mother taught it, but because I watched her live it.
You’re not that little girl anymore so stop it.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the bed, pausing at the perfect pillow, cool to the touch. Kenji hadn’t slept beside me. Not even for a second.
And I hated that it still made me feel. . .alone like her.
Even though I knew he was at war. Even though I told myself I wasn’t that kind of woman. Even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t love like that.
Ever.
Stop thinking about it. That was just a dream.
Yet, my chest ached.
My stomach felt hollow.
My jaw tightened even though I had no reason to be angry.
I almost wanted to call my mother.
Almost.
But I wasn’t ready.
The calls were always so awkward—measured and tight, like we were both holding our breath, waiting for someone to blink first.
She answered because she felt she had to.
I called because I felt I should.
Nothing about it ever felt like love.
It felt like habit—two people keeping a calendar appointment neither of them wanted to cancel.
Our conversations were clipped.
Courteous.
Too quick.
When the conversation slowed down at all, it was only because she started talking about him.
My father.
Still in jail.
Still a legend in her heart.
Still the love of her life, even after all this time.
She wrote him letters every week and got on her knees to pray for him every night. She had his pictures in gold frames all over her apartment. When she spoke of him, his name was a holy symbol instead of a criminal that shattered us. To her, he was not a man who stole her joy and future.
He was still her addiction.
And she shot him into her system daily—on purpose. Smiling. Crying. Humming Billie Holiday as the needle slipped in.
And as awful as it was to watch, I deeply resented her for it too.
For loving a man who broke everything.
For choosing that heartbreak again and again, instead of choosing herself.
Instead of choosing. . . me .
Yet now. . .sitting in Kenji’s bed, staring at the untouched pillow where his head should have rested, I felt the cold press of something terrifying in my chest.
Shit.
I was beginning to understand my mother more than I’d ever wanted to. Not just intellectually, but viscerally. Down to my marrow.
I was beginning to comprehend the way she had given him her heart.
I was understanding that deep, aching worship. That kind of obsession that turned absence into scripture.
The way she dressed up and waited.
She had been in love with a man who didn’t come home.
And now I was lying in a man’s bed, wondering if I would spend my life waiting too. The thought made me sick. . .but I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. . .I was too far gone to leave Kenji. . .he was deep in my bones now and I didn’t want his presence to ever leave me.
Fuck. How did that happen? Am I my mother now? No. I can’t be. Right?
I clenched the sheets in my fists.
I didn’t want this legacy. Didn’t want to be the daughter of a woman who waited. Didn’t want to become the woman who waited too.
Yet. . .for Kenji. . .I would wait. . .
That realization shocked and horrified me the most.
A knock came.
I blinked.
Then the door opened before I could even speak.
Zo and Hiroko stood there, framed in the doorway like two mismatched angels—one in silk, one in cotton.
Hiroko’s expression was distant and almost soft, like she had been crying but refused to talk about it. Her dark kimono was cinched too tightly at the waist, lips set in a line that wasn’t her usual regal composure—it was grief barely concealed.
Zo looked wild-eyed. Hair frizzed. Blue hoodie wrinkled like he’d been pacing for hours. He stepped in first, waving his phone like it was a badge.
“Are you well-rested, Queen Princess?” His voice was high and sarcastic. “Have the gods of black silk and Japanese incense gifted you with serenity?”
I rose. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Me?”
“And stop threatening Kenji’s staff—”
“I had to wake you up!”
“Why?” I held my hands out. “What was so serious that you had to threaten the staff and wake me?”
Hiroko moved forward and handed me her phone. “Watch this video.”
I looked down at the device and caught the horrifying image.
Oh shit!!!
And then Hiroko pressed play.