Page 9 of The Wright Man

My girls stayed hungry, and Sister Sundays always hit harder with food.

I grabbed another container, packed everything up, and wiped down the counter—each swipe of the towel a quiet reminder that I could still create warmth, still give love, whether it was received or not.

Biscuits? Check.

Gravy? Check.

Feelings? Buried. Deep.

I slung my purse over my shoulder, keys in hand, and walked out the door.

* * *

The smell of butter and sausage still clung to my clothes when I pulled into the small parking lot behind Dana's Chair, biscuits and gravy tucked safely in a floral-print tote bag on the passenger seat. The Tupperware rattled softly as I grabbed the handles and climbed out of the car, keys looped around my finger, the quiet click of the door locking behind me.

It was always quieter on Sundays. That sacred hush of the world slowing down.

No blow dryers humming, no music pulsing through the walls, no laughter bouncing off the mirrors. Just the soft creak of the door when I pushed it open and stepped into my sanctuary.

My place.

The lights were off, but even in the natural light coming through the big front windows, I could see it all—the space I had built with my own two hands and a prayer. The overhead sign glinted faintly in the morning sun, the gold lettering still making me tear up sometimes if I stared too long.

I took a deep breath.

The air smelled like shea butter and lemongrass oil, with a hint of incense from yesterday's last client. That smell never left. It clung to the walls like memory. Like home.

The floors gleamed a rich walnut brown, polished every Saturday without fail. The accent wall—painted deep forest green with hand-painted gold vines and Black art prints framed in thick wood.

I smiled.

This was peace.

I'd worked myself into the ground. Saved every dollar. Hired cousins and OK cousins-of-cousins to paint walls, lay tile, assemble chairs. Put my dad on speakerphone while he walked me through the business paperwork.

And when I stood under the newly mounted sign and cut the red ribbon on opening day, I swore I could feel Miss Dana's arms wrap around me like wind.

Dana's Chair.

Named for the woman who first taught me that hair was sacred.

"You too pretty to let just anybody play in your hair, Angie," she used to say, her warm hands greasing my scalp and parting my hair with love and precision.

I felt the tears prickle—but I didn't let them fall.

Not today.

Today was for biscuits. For sisterhood. For Sister Sunday, our sacred tradition of rest and drinks and food and frying people outside of the group chat. And maybe, just maybe, I’d laugh enough to make me forget the ache I left behind at home.

I squared my shoulders, tote bag in hand.

"Where y'all at?" I called out into the stillness of the salon, the scent of sausage gravy trailing behind me like perfume. "I made breakfast and I can't eat it all by myself."

"We're in your office!" Bella's sing-song voice floated back, full of sugar and side-eye like always.

"You had us at breakfast!" Tina added, her voice deeper, sharper, laced with laughter.

I followed their voices to the back, the soles of my Crocs making little squeaks on the freshly cleaned floor. My heart felt lighter just knowing they were here. In my space. The ones who knew me all the way down to the bone, even when I forgot who I was.