My voice sounded weak, even to my own ears. It was the voice of the old Ammani, the one who was about to be evicted.
He turned, his face already creased with annoyance.
“What, Immi? I’m trying to relax here. You really killed the vibe in there.”
This was the hardest part. Not winning the money, but this: having to beg, even as an act. But I had to see it through. I had to know.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“I’m serious, Jamal. I’m not… I’m not playing. I’m scared. I just need $2,000, just to stop the eviction. I’ll pay you back, I swear. Next month, as soon as I get my checks.”
He let out that sharp, barking laugh he always did. The one he reserved for me. The one that said I was so, so stupid.
“Two grand?” He scoffed, shaking his head as he pushed himself off the railing. “Seriously, Immi, you just don’t get it, do you?”
He puffed out his chest, tapping it with his finger.
“Priorities. You got to have priorities.”
He leaned in as if sharing a big secret.
“Ashley’s pregnant.”
He said the word “pregnant” like it was a royal announcement, a get-out-of-jail-free card for life.
“I’m about to be a father. A father, Immi. I have to save my money for my child, for my family. I can’t be bailing you out every time you mess up. You need to stop being so irresponsible.”
Irresponsible. That was the word.
It landed like a match on gasoline.
Before I could even form a reply, the screen door creaked open again. This time it was Ashley. She slinked out onto the dark porch, wrapping her arms around Jamal’s, her white skin almost glowing in the dim yellow porch light.
She gave me that slow, pitying look. The one that went right through me. The one that said, “You poor, pathetic thing.”
“Immi-kunga,” she cooed, her voice dripping with that fake syrupy sweetness. “Listen to your brother. He has real priorities now.”
She looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my work-issued polo shirt and old sneakers.
“Maybe you should just consider your options. I’m sure Mom would let you move into the basement. It’s not that damp down there. Or, you know…”
She paused, tapping her chin.
“Maybe it’s time you found a boyfriend with a better job. Someone who can take care of you. Just stop bothering my husband with your problems.”
My hands, hidden in the dark at my sides, clenched into fists. My nails dug into my palms. The humiliation was so hot it felt like acid rising in my throat. I could feel the $45 million secret burning a hole in my mind.
Irresponsible.
My voice was low. It didn’t tremble this time.
They both looked at me, surprised by the sudden change in tone.
“You want to talk about irresponsible, Jamal?”
I took a step closer into the light.
“I paid your Geico car insurance bill for the last three months. $486. The money I was saving for my electric bill. I paid it so they wouldn’t repossess that stupid black Charger you can’t afford.”
Jamal’s smirk faltered.
“That was… that was a temporary—”
“I’m not finished,” I said, cutting him off. The rage was cold and clear. “You want to talk about priorities? Last month, Jamal, I drained my entire savings account. The last $1,500 I had. The money I was saving for new tires, so my car would pass inspection.”
I looked past him, through the living room window at the bright blue glow of the new television on the wall.
“I drained it to pay off Mom’s Best Buy credit card. The credit card you maxed out to buy that seventy-inch TV you’re all in there watching the game on right now.”
There was a satisfying flash of panic in Ashley’s eyes. She knew it was true.
Jamal just stared at me, his face hardening. He was trapped. He had no facts, no defense. So he did what he always does. He changed the rules.
He shrugged, a slow, deliberate motion. He pulled Ashley closer to him like a shield.
“That’s called family, Immi,” he said, his voice cold again, dismissive. “That’s what you’re supposed to do. You’re the sister. You’re supposed to look out for us. That’s your job.”
He turned his back on me completely.
“Now I’m busy. I’ve got a baby on the way, and this night air is bad for Ashley.”
He and Ashley opened the screen door. The bright light and the sound of the crowd cheering on the TV washed over the porch for a second, and then the door slammed shut again with the little thack of the lock clicking into place, leaving me alone in the dark.
I stood there, my heart pounding. Not with sadness, but with something new. Something cold and clear and very, very patient.
The test wasn’t over. But I had my first answer, and it was exactly what I expected.
I left the porch, the screen door clicking shut behind me, the sound of Jamal’s rejection echoing in my ears.
The laughter from the living room felt like a physical blow.
I walked down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen. I knew my mother would be there.
The kitchen was warm and smelled of baked-on sugar and savory spices. My mother, Brenda, was at the counter, her back to me. She was scraping the leftover mac and cheese from the heavy glass baking dish into a large plastic Tupperware container. Next to it, another container was already piled high with fried chicken wings.
She was packing up the best parts.
I knew, without having to ask, that this food wasn’t for her. It was for Jamal and Ashley. It was always for Jamal and Ashley.
“Mom.”
She didn’t turn around. She just sighed, a long, tired sound.
“What is it, Immi? Can’t you see I’m busy cleaning up?”
“Mom, I… I really need help.”
My voice cracked. The humiliation was a physical thing, bitter and hot.
“I’m not being dramatic. I’ve never… I’ve never asked you for anything like this before. Ever.”
She stopped scraping. She put the spoon down with a sharp clack on the granite countertop. She turned around, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face wasn’t soft. It wasn’t concerned. It was just tired. Annoyed.
“You are always being dramatic, Immi,” she said, her voice flat. “Ever since you were a little girl. Always one crisis after another.”
“This isn’t a crisis, Mom. This is real. $2,000—”
She cut me off, holding up a hand.
“Where do you think I’m going to get $2,000 from? Do I look like I have money growing on trees? I’m on a fixed income, Immi. My retirement money is my retirement money.”
She turned back to the containers, snapping a plastic lid onto the mac and cheese. She said the next words to the leftovers, not to me.
“That money has to last. I have to think about Jamal. He’s about to have a baby. He’s starting a family.”
She finally looked at me, her eyes sweeping over me from my old sneakers to my tired face.
“What about you, huh? Thirty-two years old, still living in that tiny apartment. No husband, no kids, just two jobs that can’t even pay your rent.”
Every word was a perfectly aimed dart. Every word was designed to remind me of my place. The failure. The disappointment. The one who hadn’t given her a grandbaby.
A single hot tear welled up and fell, sliding down my cheek. I wiped it away, angry at my own weakness.
“But I’m your daughter too.”
It came out as a whisper. I didn’t even know if she heard it. But she did.
She stopped what she was doing. She turned to face me fully. Her expression was hard, the lines around her mouth tight.
“Then act like one,” she said, her voice dropping, sharp and cold. “Act like a daughter and handle your own business. A grown woman doesn’t come running to her mother crying about rent money. You solve your own problems. You don’t bring your trouble here and lay it at my feet. I’ve got enough to worry about with your brother.”
She had made her decision just like that. The gavel had fallen.
I was not her problem. I was just trouble.
I stood there frozen. I couldn’t breathe. This was it. This was the answer. The final nail.
The test was over. I had failed.
Or rather, they had.
I turned to leave. I had nothing left to say. My throat was closed.
“Oh, and before you go,” she said as I reached the kitchen doorway.
I stopped, but I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t look at her.
“Speaking of money,” she said, her voice casual again, as if she hadn’t just shattered me. “There’s that business with Big Mama’s old house in Vine City.”
I tensed.
Big Mama’s house. My grandmother’s house. The one place I ever felt safe. The one thing she left behind for all of us.
“What about it?” I asked, my voice hollow.
“The property tax bill just came in,” she said, scrubbing the baking dish. “Now $3,000. It’s just sitting there rotting. Nobody’s lived in it for years. It’s a waste.”
I heard her turn off the faucet.
“So, your brother and I, we’ve been talking. We decided we’re going to sell it.”
My blood ran cold.
“Sell it?”
“Yes, sell it,” she said impatiently. “Jamal knows a guy. An investor. He can get it done fast. We just need to pay those taxes first, then we can unload it. We could all use the money.”
I finally turned around.
“We?”
“Yes, we,” she said. “In case you forgot, Big Mama, in all her wisdom, left the house to all three of us. One-third for me, one-third for Jamal, and one-third for you.”
She dried her hands, her eyes locking on mine. And in that moment, I saw it. The calculation. The angle.
“So,” she said, her voice suddenly a little bit nicer, “we’re going to need your signature, Immi. You’re going to have to sign the papers to sell.”
I got back into my car, the old Honda Civic. The engine started with a familiar, tired rattle. I didn’t drive away. I just sat there, parked on the dark street outside my mother’s house.
Through the closed windows, I could hear the muffled sound of the football game and a burst of high-pitched laughter. It was probably Ashley.
My hands were shaking, not from fear of eviction, but from a deep, cold rage.
My mother’s words—
“Handle your own business.”
—and Jamal’s—
“That’s your job.”
—echoed in my head.
They had failed spectacularly.
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