16. Josiah
Sunday Afternoon
Three days had passed since dinner at Celeste’s house, and I still carried the sound of her back gate closing behind me.
Friday, I went back like I said I would.
I repaired Maya’s outlets, checked the room, replaced the worn receptacles, and left nothing humming behind drywall where a child laid her head at night.
Celeste stayed near the doorway most of the time, pretty as ever and twice as guarded.
Her hair was pulled back, her juicy, luscious lips bare, and her eyes carried the softness of sleep her body hadn’t trusted.
She thanked me more than once.
She barely looked at me while she did it.
JJ wasn’t there. Kayden wasn’t either. The girls hovered, especially Maya, who watched every turn of my screwdriver with her sketchbook pressed to her chest like she was learning whether grown folks kept promises after damage was found.
Zuri asked six questions. Skye offered me a fruit snack from her personal stash.
Celeste stood close enough for me to feel her presence and far enough to remind me she’d sent me away.
I left after the room was safe.
I didn’t ask for a conversation.
I didn’t ask why her eyes kept finding the floor.
I didn’t ask if she regretted it.
I sat in my truck outside my mama’s house with the engine off and my hands resting on the steering wheel.
The street looked the same as always. Neat lawns.
Old oaks. Two boys riding bikes too fast past a mailbox they’d probably hit before the year ended.
A neighbor’s dog barking like he paid taxes and had property disputes.
Normal life had the nerve to keep breathing, while my chest filled with smoke.
I replayed that patio conversation until memory put me on the stand. My baby had stood in front of me with tears on her face, arms locked around herself, like she was the only thing keeping her upright, and I walked away because she asked me to.
I should’ve told her space didn’t mean absence.
I should’ve made sure she knew my leaving wasn’t agreement, punishment, or retreat. It was respect with blood in its mouth.
I missed her.
Not the easier version. I missed Celeste with her grief, her children, her walls, her smart mouth, her soft eyes, and her refusal to let anybody carry her while she carried everybody else.
I missed the woman who told her babies they could never be too much and then stood on a patio, trying to exile her own heart for needing room.
Wanting her didn’t give me permission to press my fingerprints into places fear was guarding.
So I left with open hands, and every step felt like obedience dragging grief over gravel.
I got out and walked up the path before I talked myself into driving away. Mama’s porch smelled like rosemary, lemon oil, and Sunday food. Grief could survive a lot, but it struggled against a house where greens simmered and love seasoned the air.
I knocked once, then opened the door. “Mama?”
“In here.”
Her voice had the lift mothers used when they already knew something was wrong but wanted you to enter the truth on your own feet.
Uncle Zeke sat at the table with tea in front of him, his salt-and-pepper beard trimmed close, his shoulders filling out the chair like authority had raised him personally.
Aunt Hilary stood at the stove beside my mama, laughing under her breath.
Mama turned when I walked in, wiping her hands on a towel.
Yolanda Brooks didn’t need interrogation lights.
She had eyes.
The towel stilled in her hands. Her gaze traveled over my face, paused at whatever my mouth failed to hide, and softened around the edges. She crossed the kitchen and touched my cheek with the back of her fingers. My composure recognized home before my pride could stop it.
“What happened, baby?”
I looked at the floor.
That was my first mistake.
Mama’s hand dropped. “Josiah.”
Uncle Zeke leaned forward, forearms on the table. “Everything good, Neph? You walked in looking like somebody repoed ya peace.”
Aunt Hilary turned the burner lower without taking her eyes off me.
I exhaled, slow and heavy. “It’s Celeste.”
Nobody crowded me with questions. They made space for truth to sit down.
Mama nodded toward the back door. “Come sit with me.”
We stepped onto the patio, but Uncle Zeke and Aunt Hilary followed because privacy in my family had always been more of a suggestion than a structure.
Mama settled across from me. Uncle Zeke leaned against the rail.
Aunt Hilary sat beside Mama with concern resting in her eyes without forcing itself into speech.
I told them everything.
Not every word, but enough. Dinner. Kayden. Jamal’s chair. Maya’s outlets. Celeste apologizing on the patio like my dignity broke in her dining room. Her saying she couldn’t do us. Me asking what I did to make her feel unsafe. Her having no answer. Me leaving because she asked.
By the time I finished, Mama had one hand pressed against her chest.
Uncle Zeke’s jaw worked once.
Aunt Hilary blinked hard and looked toward the yard.
Mama spoke first. “You love her.”
It wasn’t a question.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and rubbed both hands over my face.
“I do. I didn’t plan on it moving like this.
I knew she was grieving. I knew her babies were grieving.
I knew walking toward her meant walking toward a house where love already buried a husband and father. I wasn’t naive about that.”
Mama watched me. “But knowing a storm exists and standing in it are two different lessons.”
Uncle Zeke nodded once. “That’ll preach.”
I looked toward the yard. “I’m trying to enter a house where Jamal still lives in the furniture, the prayers, the children, and the empty spaces nobody names.
I don’t want his chair, his title, or his children measuring my presence like proof their daddy is disappearing.
I need them to know love can make room without stealing anything. ”
Mama’s eyes lowered for a breath.
I swallowed. “And Celeste is so busy covering them that she keeps leaving herself outside in the storm. She tells those babies they’re never too much, then treats her own heart like a burden God forgot to make room for.”
Aunt Hilary whispered, “Lord.”
I pressed my palms together between my knees. “I keep thinking I should’ve stayed longer. Said more. Done more. Maybe if I reached for her, she would’ve known I wasn’t leaving her emotionally. Maybe if I pushed back harder, she wouldn’t have mistaken my respect for distance.”
Mama sat forward. “Or maybe if you’d pushed harder, she would’ve used it as evidence.”
My breath left before my pride could gather a defense.
Mama held my stare with the calm of a woman who’d lived long enough to know wisdom didn’t need volume.
“A scared heart will use the wrong evidence to protect an old wound. If you reached without permission, she might’ve called it pressure.
If you refused to leave, she might’ve called it disregard.
You gave her respect, Josiah. Don’t let pain rename obedience. ”
I breathed in through my nose.
Mama continued, “You’re a man, not the Holy Spirit. You can’t convict, comfort, heal, and be patient for everybody in that house by yourself.”
Uncle Zeke grunted. “Say that again.”
Mama looked at him. “I don’t need an echo, Jezekiah.”
Aunt Hilary laughed softly.
Even with my chest hurting, I almost smiled.
Mama’s attention returned to me. “You did what you were supposed to do. You honored the door she put in front of you. Now you need to know whether she closed it because God gave her peace or because fear ran through that house turning locks.”
Those words moved through me like scripture with work boots on.
Uncle Zeke pushed off the rail. “Let me testify for a minute.”
I looked at him.
Uncle Zeke set his glass down and pointed toward the house like the whole family lived inside his next sentence.
“Children don’t always fear a new man because he did something wrong.
Sometimes, they fear him because his goodness feels like betrayal.
Kayden saw you being respectful, patient, useful, and present.
To a grieving boy, that might’ve felt like you touched his daddy’s memory with clean hands. ”
My throat tightened.
Uncle Zeke’s voice gained weight. “So don’t walk in trying to prove you’re better than a dead man.
You’ll lose before your mouth opens. Jamal ain’t your competition.
He’s part of the covenant that shaped the woman you love and the children you want to cover.
Honor him in how you enter. Speak his name with respect.
Let them see you can stand near their father’s memory without casting a shadow over it. ”
Aunt Hilary nodded slowly.
Uncle Zeke kept going. “When the time comes, tell them the truth in language they can hold. You love their mother. You’d like the chance to care for them too.
You’re not asking to move their daddy out of their hearts.
You’re asking whether love can pull up another chair without anybody losing their seat. ”
The words pressed behind my ribs.
Aunt Hilary added, “That’s what children remember. Not a speech. A posture. They’ll watch whether your hands match your mouth.”
Uncle Zeke nodded toward her. “Exactly.” His voice softened.
“Don’t ask for the main seat in a house still learning how to breathe around an empty one.
Ask for trust. Ask for time. Ask for permission to show up without needing applause every time you do.
Love isn’t always replacement, Nephew. Sometimes it’s reinforcement.
Sometimes God sends another covering because the first covering mattered enough to leave evidence. ”
I looked down at my hands.
Aunt Hilary’s voice reached me gently. “Children understand more when adults stop speaking around the wound.”
That one stayed with me.
Speaking around the wound.