Page 31 of The Wright Man

I found her recipe box when I was eleven—this worn-out, cocoa-stained tin tucked behind some old photo albums. Every card was written in her loopy, dramatic cursive. "A sprinkle of cinnamon (not too much!)" and "Don't overmix or it'll hate you." Like she was right there beside me, sass and all. I knew I had to make him something.

So I pulled out the chocolate chip cookie recipe. Burned the first batch. Burned the second. Got the third one just right. And when I handed him one—still warm, still gooey—he bit into it, closed his eyes, and cried right there at the kitchen table. Didn't say a word. Just held the half-eaten cookie like it was sacred.

He said they tasted exactly like hers.

And from then on, baking became my way of remembering her. Of knowing her. It became my thing.

Which is why, fifteen years later, I was standing in the baking aisle at the grocery store with my phone in my hand, trying to find the right kind of cocoa powder for her double chocolate cake and stick to the list in my notes app while texting my sisters at the same damn time.

SisterSisterSister Chat

Angie : Did either of you grab the butter and heavy cream yet?

Bella : Tina's on dairy.

Tina : Tina's on a plane. Which means you're on dairy duty, Bells.

Bella : You're lucky I love seeing you succeed, because your lil trip is fucking up the flow of my "favorite daughter party prep" checklist.

Tina sent a picture in response. I tapped it and laughed under my breath, shaking my head at my phone. Tina's fingers were freshly done—almond-shaped, glossy, and aimed directly at Bella in a midair flick-off. The plane window behind her showed nothing but sky and smugness.

SisterSisterSister Chat

Bella : I hope they lose your luggage.

Tina : Love youuuuuu

Angie : Y'all better kiss and make up before Daddy's party. I got 5 on Tina swinging first though.

Tina :

I rolled my eyes, still grinning, and tucked my phone in the side pocket of my tote as I steered the cart toward the dairy section.

My sisters drove me crazy, but they were mine and I loved them. Fiercely. Loudly. With everything I had.

The Reed girls weren't built for cubicle life. Not with our big mouths and bigger dreams.

Tina had blown up online as a travel vlogger after dropping out of college—captivating viewers with her cocoa skin, curvy figure, wild curly hair and sharp tongue as she traveled the globe.

She went from DIY-ing videos at local spots, like Chesapeake Beach and Ocean City with nothing but her phone and a selfie stick, to getting all-expense-paid trips to places like Fiji, Dubai, and Morocco, usually with a videographer in tow, and getting paid to make content on them.

Her revenge trip after one of her and Rico's many breakups had gone viral—mostly because of the fiery ombre box braids I'd installed for her right before takeoff. I made her look like Black Aphrodite coming for blood.

The internet agreed. Bookings flooded in. My bookings as a stylist got a month-long waitlist overnight.

Tina always said she gave me my career. I always told her she barely gave me gas money.

Then there was Bella—our baby cousin-turned-sister, turned bendy-ass business owner.

She'd built her yoga and holistic wellness brand from scratch while still in college, blending mindful movement with hood-girl healing and sex-positive education. Her classes were equal parts stretch, sermon, and side-eye—where deep breathing met dry humor and affirmations like "You are not one of them" or "He can't fumble what you don't hand over" were printed across merch in soft pastels.

Now she ran virtual yoga flows, sensual movement workshops, and intimate coaching sessions that helped Black women reconnect with their bodies on their own terms.

We were Black girls from a regular-ass neighborhood with irregular-ass lives. We all had scars. Big ones. But somehow, we made it. Built something soft and solid out of what was left.

Sometimes I looked at them and wondered what Mama would think.

And every time, I knew she'd be proud as hell. Just like I was.