That ended it.
I kept going because once I started, it all came out.
“I buried my husband. I buried my daughter. I buried Calvin. I will not stand in this house and watch another child throw his life away in front of me because rage feels easier than grief.”
The room went silent.
Rico said, barely above a whisper, “We ain’t children.”
I looked him dead in the face. “You are to me.”
Now Sundays are loud again.
That ended it.
Not forever. Not magically. But it ended that night.
The ambulance came. Dev got stitches and a cracked rib instead of a funeral. Statements were taken. A coach Calvin trusted showed up at the hospital. So did a counselor from an outreach center Calvin had dragged Andre to months before. Piece by piece, they chose help over revenge.
Now Sundays are loud again.
Sometimes I still cry after they leave.
There are too many shoes by my door. Too many elbows on my table. Too many arguments about basketball in my living room.
Sometimes I still turn when the screen door opens, expecting to hear Calvin say, “Grandma, I’m here.”
Sometimes I still cry after they leave.
But last Sunday, Dev held up a biscuit and asked, “Nana, are these for everybody or just the people you love?”
I thought I had buried everyone I ever loved.
I looked around at that table. At Andre pretending not to smile. At Rico reaching for a third helping. At Mateo fixing my salt shaker because he can’t sit still. At all those boys the world had already decided were trouble.
And I said, “Same thing.”
I thought I had buried everyone I ever loved.
Turns out Calvin had been leaving people behind for me.
