Epilogue
“Mama! Have you seen my sketchbook?”
Her silhouette fills the doorway like something out of a fever dream—paint-splattered overalls, blonde hair wrangled under a bandana, and those stupid-ass cow slippers flopping with every step. Dad’s thrown them out more times than I can count. She always digs them back up like they're sacred.
She stands there like she’s been holding the weight of the world in one hand and my sketchbook in the other.
“You left it on the kitchen table again,” she says, voice all dry amusement and grit. “Had to damn near crawl through your brother’s biohazard of a bedroom to get it. Smelled like old socks and something I’m not ready to identify.”
I had just turned eleven the day they brought Memphis home—swaddled tight in a hospital-issued blue blanket, eyes scrunched and wailing like the world had already disappointed him.
Uncle Merc asked if they were really keeping the name, and Daddy just said, “Hell yeah. We’re not changing it—it’s fate. ”
I kiss her cheek, grounding myself in the familiar scent of her—oil paint, cold coffee, and the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask questions. That just stays.
“Thanks, Mama.”
Louisiana Wilder doesn’t come in soft.
She doesn’t believe in quiet love. She believes in the kind that shows up with dirt under its nails and fire in its chest—loud, loyal, teeth bared if it has to be.
The kind that screams when it is scared and still stands its ground.
She doesn’t take shit from anyone—especially not my daddy, and sure as hell not the world.
Dad says we’re just alike. Swears it like it’s trouble.
I take it as the highest compliment.
I was twelve when some kid at school started talking reckless—said being adopted meant I wasn’t really family. Said love without blood didn’t count. He said it like a fact, like some shit he’d been taught at the dinner table.
I didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Just stared him down and let him think whatever made him feel bigger. Because I knew better.
Blood never sat in a cold courtroom, jaw tight, ready to burn the whole damn place down if the judge even thought about handing me over to a stranger. Blood never showed up in the middle of the storm, fire blazing in her eyes and in her voice, making damn sure I knew I belonged.
That kind of love? That wasn’t blood—it was something fiercer. Something earned. Something real. More real than most folks tied by blood ever get.
But my mama? Mama pulled into that school parking lot like the damn apocalypse.
Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t wait. She stormed out of her truck, paint still drying on her boots, hair wild, fury rolling off her like heat off asphalt. Found that kid’s mama, yanked her right out of her SUV like she was taking out the trash.
“I can’t whip his ass,” she shouted, “but I can damn sure whip yours.”
People stared. Phones came out. Teachers froze.
Ten minutes later, Daddy pulled up. Sheriff’s badge catching the sun. Mouth tight. Brow furrowed like he didn’t know whether to laugh or run.
Mama stood there in the middle of it all, unbothered. Chest heaving, chin up, eyes locked on him like she dared him to try her.
“Nobody fucks with my kid,” she said. “So arrest me, Sheriff, or move the hell out of my way.”
He cuffed her. Hands gentle. Mouth twitching like he was biting back a smile. Later, he brought her home and cooked her dinner. She wore those cuffs like a badge, and I’ve never once doubted who I belonged to.
She steps into my room and runs her fingers along the edge of the photo frame on my dresser—the one I used to sleep with clutched to my chest like it could keep me whole. It’s old now, worn at the corners, but I’ve never stopped keeping it close. It’s all I’ve got left of my baby brother.
She doesn’t say anything at first, just lets her hand linger like she’s holding more than just glass and paper.
Then, softly says, “Dally, I want you to apply to that art school in Raleigh. The one your teacher won’t shut the fuck up about.”
Her voice has that little hitch in it—the one that only comes out when she’s trying to sound braver than she feels.
My stomach tightens. That school’s been hanging over me like a cloud all year. Everyone says I should go. That it’s a chance. A future. But all I can think about is what I’d be leaving behind.
I look at her, standing there in the half-light. Same paint-stained overalls. Same stubborn tilt to her jaw. She’s always looked too small to carry everything she does—but she carries it anyway.
And me? I may be taller now, broader across the shoulders, but I’ll always be that kid that knew from one glance the sun rose and set with her. The one who learned what love looked like by watching her fight tooth and nail for it.
“Mama—”
She turns toward me slowly, eyes shining, and slips her pinky around mine like it’s sacred—like letting go would unravel something too tender to name.
“I won’t sugarcoat it,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, shaped by a thousand quiet heartbreaks. “The day you leave…it’ll split me right down the middle. Not all at once. Just little cracks I’ll carry with me.”
She breathes in deep, steadying herself, and her pinky tightens like she’s anchoring us both.
“I’ll miss the way your presence fills a room, heavy and warm like summer thunder—just like your daddy’s.
I’ll miss our late nights at the kitchen table, nothing but pencil scratches and peace between us.
” She pauses, and it’s like the whole world stills with her.
“I’ll miss your smile most of all because I still remember the days you didn’t. ”
“I used to think my brokenness defined me,” she says, her voice soft, almost a confession. “Not being able to have children—God, it tore me open. I carried that pain deep, like it was woven into every part of me.”
Her hand tightens around my cheek, a quiet strength grounding me.
“But then you came along. And all that hurt—the brittle emptiness inside me—softened. It turned into something sacred. Something beautiful. You made it beautiful.”
She swallows hard, steadying herself, her eyes holding mine with a fierce tenderness.
“I want you to go to that fancy-ass art school and share all those beautiful pieces that make you who you are—with the world. Then when you need me, I’ll be right here. I’ll always be right here.”
I place my hand over hers and give her a watery smile—because my mama didn’t raise me to be a bitch, but a man who feels. “Okay, but you have to promise me something.”
She pulls her hand away, folding her arms like she’s sizing me up, knowing I’m cut from the same cloth as my daddy.
“What’s that?”
I grin her wide grin and bop her nose. “Don’t do anything crazy while I’m gone like try and cook, I’d still like to have a family to come home too.”
Her eyes soften, the fierce edge fading for a moment, replaced by something steady and warm.
I grin back, feeling that familiar comfort settle inside me—a piece of home I’ll carry wherever I go.