Epilogue
SEVEN ⒈／⒉ MONTHS LATER
T he room was soft with haze, lit by a golden glow that didn’t seem to come from the sun or the moon—just peace.
As I looked around, a wave of nostalgia and confusion washed over me.
I found myself barefoot in my old, faded pajamas, standing in my old kitchen.
It wasn’t the kitchen as it was now, but a vibrant snapshot from my childhood—yellow curtains, spice jars on the windowsill, a bowl of fruit that never went bad.
The radio in the corner played softly, the tunes of church hymns weaving through the air, echoing the joy that had once resonated within those walls.
And then I saw her.
Nana Li stood by the stove, dressed in her cherished floral house dress. She was stirring a bubbling pot of something aromatic, evoking memories of Sunday dinners filled with laughter and love.
Words escaped me, lodged in my throat like a stone, as she turned and smiled—her expression a mix of warmth and recognition, as if she had been waiting for this moment all along.
"Hey, baby,” she greeted softly.
My heart tightened at the sound, a melody I had longed to hear.
With open arms, she enveloped me in a hug that radiated love and safety, the kind of embrace that allowed all the world’s harshness to fall away. I melted against her, just as I had countless times in the past.
“I miss you,” I managed to whisper, my voice barely a breath.
“I know you do. I miss you too. But I been right here… just waiting ‘til you was ready.”
We settled down together at the well-worn wooden table, its surface scarred from years of family meals and laughter. She reached for my hand—her skin was still soft and warm. Her eyes bore a knowing look that seemed to dive deep into the very core of me.
“I’m proud of you, you hear me? You done come a long way,” she said, her voice rich with affirmation. “You got scars, baby—but you ain’t let them turn you bitter. That takes strength.”
“S-sometimes I still feel like that little girl… shaking, apologizing for just being.”
She gave my hand a gentle squeeze, her grip both reassuring and empowering.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with being shaken, as long as you don’t break.”
A brief silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken feelings.
“But now it’s time to let go of the part that’s still holding on to that pain,” she urged softly. “You gotta forgive them... your parents, baby.”
A pressure rose behind my ribs, fluttered in my chest like wings too big for the cage.
“Forgive a thorn bush! Hug it and smile, why don’t you?! Hah—okay, okay…”
Nana Li raised her brows, wisdom shining in her gaze.
“I didn’t say you had to talk to them or welcome them back.
But if you don’t let go of what they did, it will keep choking you.
Forgiveness isn’t about reconnecting; it’s about releasing.
Naji, you’re walking around carrying a weight they don’t even know they gave you. That ain’t fair to you, sugar.”
Tears began to slip unbidden down my cheeks, each one a memory of pain and unresolved feelings.
She rose and moved behind me, placing her hands gently on my shoulders, just like she used to when she'd pray over me before school.
“You don’t owe nobody a relationship… but you owe yourself peace. So give it to yourself.”
As her voice started to fade into a soft whisper, I fought to cling to the moment. “I love you, Naji.”
A lump rose in my throat. “I love you too… so much. Will I… will I see you again?”
Nana Li smiled with that quiet knowing, like she already had the answer to everything I hadn’t figured out yet. But instead of responding directly, she just touched my cheek—warm and weightless.
As the kitchen began to dissolve around me, I strained to hold onto her, the warmth of her embrace a lifeline in the unraveling dream.
Before the world disappeared completely, I heard her voice one final time, a parting gift that echoed in my heart: “And Naji, that husband of yours… I like him. Don’t push him away when it gets hard.
You deserve love that stays. But let him know I’m watching.
And if he ever acts up, his keys are gonna stay lost for life.
And please, wear clean drawers, just in case y’all end up in somebody’s ER from all that swingin’ and flippin’ y’all be doing.
Now, go live your life, baby… whole and free. ”
And then… I woke up.
My breath felt shaky, a tremor running through me as my fingers tightened around the soft fabric of the blanket. My eyes stung from the tears that still lingered, a bitter reminder of the emotions I had been holding back. I lay there, motionless, staring up at the ceiling.
After a long moment, I whispered, “Okay…”
I understood what I needed to do. I wouldn’t carry that pain like an unwelcome part of my being any longer. No more letting fear constrict the love that I had fought so valiantly to preserve in my heart.
The Mississippi sun poured down gentle and gold, painting my old house in light like it was being born again.
Seven months… that’s how long the renovations took.
A house that once felt like a ghost, now stood tall, whole, and proud again.
The chipped paint had been sanded down and refreshed to match the color it always wore, that soft, warm red.
The porch no longer creaked under pressure.
The steps were new but built to the exact measurements that my grandfather had left behind.
The screen door still squeaked just a little.
Imanio had wanted to replace it, but I told him no —some sounds didn’t need fixing.
The roof was brand new, the kitchen was redone, and the plumbing was tighter than ever.
But the feeling of the house? That stayed the same.
I kept the wallpaper in the hallway—the one with faint roses climbing up toward the ceiling.
It didn’t make sense to strip everything away just because it got old.
When I first came back, I wasn’t expecting anything to be touched, much less maintained. But the grass had been trimmed, the hedges low and neat. A note was taped to the rusted mailbox.
" Figured somebody had to take care of it. Hope you don’t mind”. – Mr. Lacy (next door)
I had knocked on his door the same day, hugged his old bones, and thanked him with tears in my eyes.
He said, “ Your granny and Papa raised you right. It didn’t feel right letting their house go wild.”
I stood by the porch swing, gently swaying in place, one hand resting on the soft curve of my belly.
I am nine months pregnant, and I can feel every bit of that weight—especially today.
My body aches, slow and low, but I haven’t said a word to Imanio.
He was sitting nearby, watching me like he could sense things before I did.
If I mentioned even the tiniest pain, he would likely scoop me up and drive me to the nearest hospital just to make sure the baby wasn’t on the way.
He’d been that way my entire pregnancy—protective, present, patient.
I couldn’t have asked for a better partner… a better forever.
The sound of tires crunching up the gravel drive pulled my attention toward the road. I turned and saw them: my mom, dad, and Chiamaka.
Chiamaka still lived with us, though she’d spent the weekend with them.
She’d enrolled in school recently and even had a boyfriend .
Poor guy. Imanio had drilled him with a hundred questions like he was applying for a top-secret clearance and sized him up like he was trying to pass through airport security with bricks in his bag.
By the time he was done, the boy looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole.
I couldn’t even blame him—Imanio had a way of scaring people without lifting a finger.
Still, the fact that he stuck around after that?
Honestly, I respected him for surviving the Kors interrogation.
My parents got out of the car slowly—hesitant. In contrast, Chiamaka rushed straight toward us, eyes bright, arms already reaching.
She wrapped me in a hug and rubbed my belly gently, grinning.
“I can’t wait to see my nephew! He’s gonna be spoiled rotten, you know that, right?”
“I knowwwwww!” I pouted, rubbing my belly.
I smiled, glancing at Imanio, who was now standing with his arms folded, watching everything play out.
“You ready for this?” he asked me quietly.
“Might as well be,” I replied, exhaling.
My mom’s eyes were already glassy as she took in the house—the porch, the yard. She reached for my dad’s hand like she needed grounding.
I stepped down from the porch and handed them the keys.
Chiamaka caught my eye, her expression soft but weighted. Her look said, “ You gotta talk to them. They’ve been waiting on it.”
And she was right.
Had I not had that dream—that dream about Nana Li—I probably would've just handed them the keys, nodded, and walked away. But I was ready now.
“We need to talk,” I took the initiative to say, voice calm but firm.
“ We agree,” my dad replied.
The three of us stepped away from the house together, slipping behind the old Magnolia tree Nana Li once planted with her bare hands. It stood tall now, full and blooming, like it had been waiting for this moment just as long as we had.
For a moment, no one spoke. My parents looked at me like they hadn’t seen me in years—which, emotionally , they hadn’t.
My mom’s eyes pinned me in place.
“Naji, why didn’t you tell me when your grandmother passed? I had to hear it through a friend, Naji.”
My chest tightened. I wanted to look away, but I made myself hold her stare.
“The truth is… I didn’t call b-because we hadn’t spoken in so long. We were already estranged, and the thought of dialing your number after all that time—it felt impossible. I’m not p-p-proud of it… and I’m sure Nana Li wouldn’t have been either, but that’s the truth.”
My voice cracked as the question tumbled out before I could stop it.
“But… would you have even came?”
My mom’s eyes glistened. “Of course. Maybe then we’d be in a much better place today.”