Page 19 of When Love Takes Root

“And?” Miss Claudette asked.

“This is why I love her,” Juice said, slapping the counter while he laughed.

“You love anybody feeding you,” I said.

“Correct,” Juice replied.

“Your daddy used to sit right there,” Miss Claudette said, nodding toward my chair.

The fork paused halfway to my mouth.

Jeremiah Brooks had been gone ten years, but grief didn’t keep appointments. It showed up when it pleased. A name, a smell, an old hymn, a plate of food, and suddenly the dead weren’t gone so much as standing just beyond reach.

“My daddy would’ve eaten this whole plate and asked you what else you had,” I said.

Miss Claudette laughed, and memory warmed the sound. “He sure would’ve. That man loved him some breakfast.”

“He loved butter more than he loved medical advice,” I said.

“That’s facts,” Juice said, pointing his fork at me.

“He loved your mama right too.”

“Thirty-two years,” I added.

Miss Claudette nodded. “Thirty-two faithful years. That matters.” It did. “Your mama doing alright?”

“She says she is,” I said.

Miss Claudette lifted one brow. “That ain’t what I asked you.”

Juice got still at the counter. He knew that tone. So did I.

I pushed a piece of egg around my plate. “She misses him.”

Miss Claudette took a small breath before she answered. “Of course she does. A love that deep doesn’t leave because somebody dies. It just has to learn how to live without a body.”

Nobody moved for a second.

I looked down at my scarred hands. They’d known wire, prison bars, prayer, and more responsibility than a sixteen-year-old should’ve carried.

Mama had pressed her palm to the glass every visit. Daddy had sat beside her, jaw tight, eyes wet but too proud to let tears fall in front of me. “Loyalty without wisdom will bury you, son. Don’t let love make you everybody’s sacrifice,” he told me once through that scratched-up phone.

I heard him then. I understood him later.

“You work too much,” Miss Claudette said, pulling me back into her kitchen.

Juice nodded quickly. “I’ve been saying that.”

“You say a lot,” I told him.

“And every now and then, I’m right,” Juice replied.

Miss Claudette reached across the table and rubbed her thumb over my wrist. “Your daddy carried everybody until his own body started asking for what he wouldn’t give it. His heart attack scared this whole community. Don’t make the same mistake trying to be everybody’s strong place.”

I looked down at her hand over mine. Somewhere along the way, I’d inherited more than his work ethic.

My jaw worked once. Juice didn’t have anything smart to say either.