Chapter Three The Void and the Voice
The church basement smelled like peppermint and old hymnals.
Sunni sat in a metal folding chair, surrounded by strangers who all carried the same kind of grief—heavy, invisible, always there.
The sign near the entrance said “Women of the Waiting Room”, a support group for widows.
She didn’t want to come. Kane practically begged her to.
“You always say we gotta talk to somebody,” she told her mama. “So go talk.”
So she went.
“Everybody grieves different,” said Miss Georgia, a caramel-colored woman in her sixties with silver curls and a big laugh. “Some folks cry. Some go numb. Some clean the whole house every day like they tryna scrub the pain away. Me? I used to talk to my husband’s pillow like it could talk back.”
A few women chuckled. Sunni cracked a smile. First one in days.
Beside her sat a quiet woman named Lisa—mid-40s, kind face, small voice. She handed Sunni a Kleenex without a word when her eyes welled up.
“I just feel like… I don’t know who I am no more,” Sunni finally said, voice shaking. “I was his wife. Their mama. But now it’s just me. And I’m not sure me is enough.”
Miss Georgia leaned over and took Sunni’s hand. “Oh, baby. You more than enough. You just been living so long in survival mode, you forgot you got a name that don’t end in ‘Mama’ or ‘Wife.’ You Sunni. And she’s still in there.”
The words cracked something open. Not healed it. But cracked it—enough for light to get in.
After group, Lisa walked her to the car.
“I work at the medical billing office in Arlington,” Lisa said softly. “They been looking for someone part-time, clerical stuff. Filing, data entry. Ain’t glamorous, but it’s quiet and comes with insurance. You interested?”
Sunni blinked. “I don’t even have a résumé.”
Lisa shrugged. “You got a reason. That’s enough. I’ll talk to my supervisor.”
A week later, Sunni stood in front of a beige office building, wearing slacks she hadn’t worn since Prince was a baby. Her resume was printed at the library, her nerves loud in her chest.
It wasn’t what she dreamed of. But it was hers.
Inside, the hum of copy machines and tapping keyboards surrounded her like background music. Lisa had shown her around, introduced her to a few coworkers, and promised to help her learn the system. It felt strange, good-strange—like muscles waking up after years of sleep.
By her second week, Sunni started smiling without forcing it. She even packed a lunch and used real lotion instead of the baby kind. Progress.
Then came Friday.
She was at the front desk, printing intake forms, when the receptionist’s voice came through the intercom.
“Sunni? You have a visitor.”
“A visitor?”
“Yeah, said her name’s Keisha. She’s here about Marcus.”
The room tilted.
She stood, legs stiff like concrete, and walked to the lobby.
There she was.
The voice from the phone call. Younger than Sunni expected. Pretty. Nervous. But with that same fire in her eyes Sunni had the first time she gave birth—that mama lion look.
“Sunni?” the woman said, standing slowly.
Sunni folded her arms. “I remember your voice. What you want?”
Keisha hesitated, then pulled out her phone. Opened a picture.
Marcus.
Standing in a park. Smiling. Holding hands with a little boy and a toddler girl.
Sunni’s knees buckled, but she caught herself on the chair behind her.
“He told me he was single. I didn’t know he was with you too,” Keisha whispered, eyes wide with guilt and confusion. “He ain’t dead, Sunni. He been living. With us.”
Sunni stared at the photo, then at Keisha. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
The room spun.
Her world—the one she was finally piecing back together—shattered all over again.