Chapter 1 - THE BACK DOOR
The first thing I heard when I came home for my son’s birthday was my mother telling twenty people that my wife was worthless.
“In this house, I make the rules,” Teresa Bradley said.
Then she laughed.
“Connor pays the bills. Amy gives birth, washes dishes, and stays out of grown folks’ business.”
Everyone laughed with her.
I stopped outside my own back door with a birthday cake in one hand and a shopping bag in the other.
For five full seconds, I couldn’t move.
I had left work early that Friday because I wanted to surprise my wife.
Our son, Frederick, was turning one.
I had bought him a little silver pendant with the letter F on it.
For Amy, I had ordered the blue dress she’d looked at online for weeks but refused to buy.
“Too expensive,” she’d told me.
It was eighty-nine dollars.
Meanwhile, for the past eleven months, I’d been sending my mother three thousand dollars every month because she told me Amy needed help.
Groceries.
Utilities.
Baby supplies.
Doctor visits.
I trusted her.
She was my mother.
That was mistake number one.
I looked through the glass in the back door.
My backyard looked like a wedding reception.
White tablecloths.
Seafood platters.
Bottles of bourbon.
Balloons.
A rented speaker system.
My relatives were eating like they hadn’t seen food in years.
And my mother stood in the middle of them wearing a new red dress, a gold necklace, and a smile that made my stomach twist.
“My son takes care of me,” she announced. “That’s what successful men do.”
Aunt Betsy raised her drink.
“He certainly takes care of somebody.”
More laughter.
Then Uncle Ray asked, “Where’s Amy? Ain’t she the birthday boy’s mother?”
Betsy rolled her eyes.
“Kitchen.”
“Still?”
“She’s got work to do.”
Someone chuckled.
Betsy shrugged.
“If a woman lives off a man, she should at least know how to serve his family.”
My hand tightened around the cake box.
I opened the door.
Nobody saw me.
Not yet.
I walked down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The closer I got, the quieter the party sounded.
Then I heard a baby crying.
Not a normal cry.
A weak, exhausted whimper.
I stepped into the kitchen.
And everything inside me went cold.
Amy was sitting on a cheap plastic stool beside the sink.
Her hair was stuck to her face.
Her shirt was stained with milk.
Dirty plates towered around her.
She was holding Frederick against her chest with one arm while washing a greasy pan with the other.
There was a piece of dry bread between her lips.
She looked up.
The bread fell to the floor.
“Connor?”
Her eyes filled instantly.
Then she whispered something I’ll never forget.
“Your mom said I’m not allowed to stop yet.”
I crossed the room.
“Give me Frederick.”
She hesitated.
“Connor—”
“Give him to me.”
I touched my son’s forehead.
He was burning up.
“How long has he had a fever?”
Amy looked toward the backyard.
“Since this morning.”
My chest tightened.
“Why isn’t he at the doctor?”
She swallowed.
“Your mother took my car keys.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She said I was being dramatic. She said the party was already paid for.”
Behind me, someone cleared their throat.
I turned.
My mother stood in the doorway.
She didn’t look surprised to see me.
She smiled.
“Well,” Teresa said, “you’re home early.”
And then I noticed something in her hand.
May you like
My spare house key.
The one I kept locked inside my office.
