Page 84 of When Love Takes Root

“Yes, ma’am.”

She laughed. “Look at you listening.”

“I have children. I understand consequences.”

When she walked back toward the building, I stood beside my car for a moment and looked up. The sky had opened into streaks of violet, rose, and gold, colors layered so beautifully it almost felt disrespectful to be confused beneath them. I couldn’t see Heaven, but I had spent enough years talking to God to know He didn’t need to be visible to be present.

I lifted my eyes and let out a breath that shook on the way out.

“Okay, God,” I whispered. A smile caught me before I could stop it. “Or Big G, as Josiah calls You.” I laughed under my breath, wiping quickly beneath one eye before the tear could get bold.

“But I’m gonna need a little more convincing.”

The smile stayed with me as I climbed into the car, locked the doors, and pulled out my phone. I texted JJ first, then Kayden.

Made it to the car. Heading home now.

Kayden replied before I could put the phone down.

Thank you.

Two words.

A boy trying.

A mother learning.

I started the engine and looked once more at Rosehaven glowing behind me.

I pulled out of the parking lot with one small, terrifying truth blooming beneath my ribs.

Maybe moving forward didn’t mean leaving love behind.

Maybe some roots were strong enough to hold memory and still make room for something new to grow.

Friday Afternoon

Granddaddy James cheated at dominoes with a Bible verse on his tongue and a peppermint tucked in his cheek.

That was the first thing I had to accept when Juice and I got to Rosehaven that Friday. Age hadn’t made James Brooks more honest. It had only made him slower with the evidence. He sat in his wheelchair near the window with a wool blanket folded over his legs, a cream cardigan over his shoulders, and the same sharp eyes that used to catch me taking apart radios on his back porch before I could hide the screwdriver. His hair had gone silver, his hands had thinned, and his knees had betrayed him years ago, but his mouth still worked like it had been called, anointed, and assigned to trouble.

He slapped his last domino on the table and leaned back like he had just defeated nations.

Mr. Wallace groaned from the other side of the table. “James, you ain’t had that five all this time.”

Granddaddy looked offended enough for church testimony. “You calling me a liar in a public facility?”

“I’m calling you what the table already know.”

Juice fell back in his chair laughing. “Granddaddy, you been holding that bone since Moses crossed the Red Sea.”

Granddaddy pointed at him. “Don’t put me in the Bible if you gon’ slander me.”

I sat beside him with my elbows on my knees, smiling, because some places in a man’s life didn’t need much to remind him what still mattered. An old table. A room smelling like coffee, lemon polish, and somebody’s medicated rub. Men who had outlived their knees but not their competitive spirit. My cousin running his mouth. My grandfather looking around like he still owned every circuit, every wall, and every argument in the building.

When I was a boy, Granddaddy’s hands could make dead rooms light up. He’d walk into a house with a tester, a tool belt, and an old hymn humming in his chest. Folks called him when breakers kept tripping, when outlets sparked, when old wiring got tired of pretending it was safe. He taught my father the trade the way some men taught sons scripture, line by line, correction by correction, hand over hand, until respect became muscle memory. Then my father taught me. Three generations of Brooks men learning that power was never something to play with just because you knew where the switch was.

Granddaddy could barely hold a screwdriver now without his fingers aching, but when he talked about current, he still sounded like a man standing inside his calling.