Page 41 of The Wright Man

I paused in my office, letting myself breathe for a second. This shop had seen me through everything. Grief. Love. Loss. That first miscarriage. Dana's Chair was my first real win. It was more than a business—it was therapy. A sanctuary.

Miss Dana took pity on Daddy when we were kids, back when he was still figuring out how to raise two girls on his own. Man could barely manage a puff, let alone a part. So she started doing our hair—mine and Tina's—free of charge, no matter how wild we came in looking. Said she couldn't stand to see little Black girls walking around looking unloved just 'cause life threw their daddy in the deep end.

It wasn't just hair to her. It was armor. Magic. A fresh set of braids or a slick ponytail could change a girl's whole mood, her whole sense of self. She made us feel beautiful, powerful—seen.

And when she got sick, she started teaching me. Not just how to twist and press and lay edges, but how to pour love into every coil I touched. How to make a girl feel like the baddest thing walking, no matter what the world told her.

She used to say, "Angie, doing a Black woman's hair is a sacred responsibility. You're not just styling—you're restoring."

And every time I parted a coil, oiled a scalp, or watched a woman look in the mirror like she finally recognized herself again, I felt it. That sacredness. That power.

I picked up the black gift bag from my office, careful not to wrinkle the tissue paper. Inside was the engraved whiskey decanter set. Simple. Elegant. The perfect gift for the man who gave me everything.

With one last look at the shop, still buzzing with life and laughter, I slipped out the door.

Ready—almost—for whatever the day would bring.

* * *

"Happy birthday, Daddy!" I sang, wrapping my arms tight around him the second I stepped through the front door.

He grunted like he always did when I hugged him too hard, but the way his hand patted my back said I missed you too, baby girl. I leaned back and handed him the gift bag with a grin.

"Don't shake it. Just open it."

Daddy squinted at me, tugged at the black tissue paper with all the suspicion of a man who'd raised three girls with too much imagination and not enough chill. His brows lifted as he pulled out the engraved decanter and matching glasses, fingers tracing the etched glass like it was something sacred. He read the card aloud.

"'To the best man I know... from your favorite girl.'" His voice was low, gruff. "This real crystal?"

"What do you think?" I smirked.

He shook his head, trying not to smile, then did anyway. "Y'all tryna make an old man cry today."

I shrugged like it wasn't exactly what I was trying to do. "You're welcome."

"I'm gon' put this at the bar before one of y'all break it."

And just like that, he shuffled off toward the den, cradling the box like a newborn. I watched him go, heart full, chest tight. There was no way I'd ever deserve a daddy like him. But I was damn sure thankful.

"He still your biggest fan," Tina said behind me, bumping my shoulder.

"Always will be," I murmured, setting the cake on the kitchen counter.

"You're laaaaate..." Bella sang from her perch at the island, sliding deviled eggs onto a tray with entirely too much glee.

"I knowww..." I sang back, slipping the cake into the fridge.

"I got in from Miami on a red eye and still made it here in time," Tina said, sipping from a mason jar of sweet tea like she hadn't just read me.

I shot her a look. "I had to grab Daddy's gift on the way, damn."

"Mmhmm." Bella tossed a deviled egg in her mouth. "You better tighten up. Tina's coming for your second place spot for Favorite Daughter."

"Please," I snorted, popping my lashes dramatically. "Y'all been fighting for runner up since '96."

They laughed, and I could finally exhale. The kitchen was already warm with good smells and good energy—baked beans in the oven, peach cobbler cooling on the stove, Stevie Wonder playing softly on the speakers like he belonged in the family. The decorations weren't done, but the bones were there—balloons half-inflated, paper fans in the colors of the Pan-African flag, banners still waiting to be taped up.

We fell into our usual rhythm without missing a beat. Tina chopped, Bella stirred, I fussed over table settings. Little by little, Daddy's birthday started to take shape. Our home transformed around us. The laughter, the music, the familiar smells of Cajun seasoning and caramelized sugar—it all wove together into something sacred. Something that felt like home.