Chapter 1 #2
Sunlight spilled over the countertops, glinting off spice jars and the stack of graded papers waiting for me. Between stirring the pot and checking the oven, my eyes kept drifting to my planner—testing next week, essays still calling my name.
My love for them never dimmed—through the laughter, the pushback, the days they crumbled under a world that demanded grown from kids still becoming. I carried them in everything, even now, while I measured seasoning and kept one eye on NanNan’s pill schedule.
One day, I wanted a place where struggling students, especially kids with learning differences, could exhale without judgment: an after-school tutoring center built for grace, not pressure.
I kept drafting the dream in the margins of my planner because my goals always lived on the edges of my responsibilities.
That was my pattern—build for everybody, postpone myself.
The hum of the oven, the flicker of candles on the counter, and the faint gospel playing from NanNan’s tablet made the house feel alive.
After dinner, I cleaned up, brewed her nightly cup of chamomile tea, and kissed her forehead good night.
Her skin was warm. Her eyes were tired. She held my hand for an extra second before letting go, and that extra second felt like an unspoken prayer.
I went back to my planner to go over my checklist.
Wednesday:
– Take NanNan to Dr. Robinson.
– Tutoring group after school.
– Pick up new coffee beans for The Pour House.
The list went on, neat lines and little boxes, a reflection of how much of myself I gave away daily.
Somewhere between all those checkboxes, I forgot to make space for myself.
Not on purpose. Not out of neglect. But out of habit, grief, and a quiet belief that if I stopped moving, I would feel everything at once.
The next afternoon, The Pour House smelled like cinnamon, fresh espresso, and the faint sweetness of NanNan’s famous lemon bars. The coffee shop was alive with chatter, papers rustling, and the soft clink of mugs against saucers.
I wore jeans, a soft pink sweater, and my “teacher off duty” sneakers.
I pulled my loosely curled hair into a bun with curls framing my face.
My lips were glossed. My eyebrows were done.
Small effort. Quiet rebellion against my own exhaustion.
NanNan sat behind the counter, her cane resting beside her, supervising more than working, though she’d never admit it.
She watched everything: the register, the oven, the people, and even me.
“Don’t you burn my cinnamon rolls this time!” she called out.
“I ain’t burned your rolls since last month!” I said over my shoulder, smiling.
She laughed. “Chile, one batch too many. My customers have long memories.”
The bell over the door jingled, and in came my little study group, four of my ninth graders, bright-eyed and talkative. “Morning, Ms. S!” they sang in unison.
“Morning, geniuses,” I said, warmth spreading through me. “Grab your notebooks. We’re diving into Invictus today.”
We took a big table by the window, where sunlight warmed the brick and turned the dust to glitter above mason jars of flowers. I passed out the poem copies and leaned in, elbows on the table, my voice steady.
“Alright, y’all. Tell me. When he says, ‘I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul,’ what does that mean to you?”
Jasmine raised her hand. “That we control our lives?”
“Exactly. No matter what happens, you still have power over how you respond. Life can hit hard, but you have to stay unbroken. That’s your power.”
While they scribbled, my reflection stared back from the glass—tired eyes, a soft smile, a woman who gave until she was ringing empty. I wondered when I’d learn to keep some for myself, and whether I could be cared for without feeling guilty for it.
“Hey, girl!” Mellonie’s voice cut through my thoughts. She was loud, cheerful, and full of energy, like always. She breezed in, her curly hair bouncing, acrylic nails gleaming, and that signature confidence entering the room before she did.
I laughed. “You’re late, Mel.”
She winked. “Fashionably. Math doesn’t rush perfection.”
She ordered green tea, then plopped down beside another group of kids, spreading out worksheets. “Y’all better not embarrass me in front of Ms. S. Let’s get this warmup done and then act like I taught ya something, y’all hear me?” she teased, making everyone laugh.
That was Mellonie—chaos in sunshine, my best friend since third grade. Where I was cautious, she was color; where I was logical, she was laughter, always making space in my life for joy that didn’t come with a checklist.
When the sessions ended, the café emptied until it was just NanNan and us. We reset the space, wiping counters, flipping chairs, and restocking napkins, while Mellonie cinched her apron and swept in rhythm with the low music.
“You know what I love about this place? It smells like purpose,” Mel said, tossing a rag over her shoulder.
I smiled, wiping the counter beside her. “That’s ’cause coffee and love keep it running.”
“Uh huh, lots of caffeine,” she said, then her face shifted, her serious concerned expression peaking though. “But seriously, Solé, you are doing too much. You know that, right?” she asked incredulously.
“I’m fine, Mel,” I insisted.
“You said that last week, and the week before, and the week before that. Your birthday is coming up, and I know you’re gonna try to spend it grading essays or folding dish towels.”
I rolled my eyes, laughing. “I’m focused on my career.”
“Mmhmm, . . . work, work, work, work, work,” she sang in her best impression of Rihanna.
I didn’t have an answer for that. I busied myself stacking chairs, pretending not to feel the weight of her words.
Mel clapped her hands suddenly, changing the subject like she always did when she didn’t want me to spiral. “Anyway, you’re off this weekend.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are, because I already put in for you. I told NanNan we’re taking a teacher sabbath to pre-game before your upcoming birthday.” She cut in, smirking.
I laughed as I wiped down the espresso machine. “You decided I’m off?”
“Uh huh. Because if I leave it up to you, you’ll be here making lesson plans instead of living your life,” she said, placing a hand on her hip.
This tickled NanNan pink as she bent over behind the counter. “Take the day, baby. You earned it.”
The three of us paused in the middle of the shop, warm lights pooling over the family photos—Mama smiling, Daddy holding me as a baby, my grandparents posed outside this very building.
History looked on while we laughed, and love lived in the small things: sugar packets, napkins, the steady hush of legacy.
For one small moment, I let myself breathe.
Maybe my life had become a loop of responsibility, but right then, surrounded by the people who loved me most, it didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like purpose.
Perhaps I could want more than purpose. I could want joy without earning it first. I could want a life that felt full.
Mel grinned like the devil herself. “I got us two tickets for the Self Ridge Skylines basketball game. They are lower-level seats too, boo. You’re coming with me, and that’s final.”
I shook my head, laughing despite myself. “You really don’t take no for an answer.”
“Not with your happiness. I’m tired of watching you save the world. It’s time you let the world give you something back,” she said, hugging me tight.
That night, after I dropped Mel off and tucked NanNan in, I stood by my window, looking out at the streetlights painting the pavement gold. The town was quiet, but my heart wasn’t.
Maybe they were right. Perhaps I was overdue for a bit of living. What was the worst that could happen?
Still, as I turned off the lamp and crawled into bed with my planner on the nightstand, I whispered a promise to myself, soft enough not to scare it away.
I’d take the day off—just one.