Daddy loved Mama with every fiber of his bein’. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t give up or give to her. He hated doin’ anything that made her upset, so most times he just stepped back and let her have her way. Folks used to say Elias Sinclair was a big man with a soft heart, my teddy bear of a daddy. He once dreamed of havin’ a big family, but after I was born, Mama didn’t want no more children. She said pregnancy kept her from doin’ what she wanted, and Daddy, bein’ the man he was, accepted it. He said he was satisfied with just me, his baby girl.
Daddy was the kind of man who loved quiet things; sittin’ on the porch with a cup of chicory coffee, hummin’ old blues songs under his breath, fixin’ things that didn’t need fixin’ just to keep his hands busy. He had a laugh that could fill a room and a patience that could calm storms. But after Papa Charles died, that patience was tested in ways he never expected.
He saw how Mama changed; how she clung to her faith like it was the only thing keepin’ her upright, how she pulled me right along with her, and how she turned her back on Grandma Odette and everything that came from his side of the family. He saw how she treated me, too.
At first, Daddy tried to reason it out. Said Mama was grievin’, said she just needed time. He gave her space, kept quiet, prayed with her, waited. But days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into three long years. I wasn’t six anymore. I was nine, and Mama’s discipline had turned into somethin’ else entirely.
I didn’t even have to do nothin’ for her to lash out. Sometimes it was my tone, sometimes it was my silence, sometimes it was just the way I looked at her. She’d say she was “speakin’ the evil out of me,” her voice sharp and tremblin’ with conviction. I’d stand there, hands clasped, tryin’ not to cry, tryin’ not to make her angrier.
The house had become a battlefield of faith and fear. Mama filled it with gospel music and sermons, drownin’ out the sound of my laughter. She said she was protectin’ me from temptation, but it felt more like she was tryin’ to erase me. Daddy would sit in his chair, jaw tight, eyes heavy, watchin’ her pace the floor with her Bible clutched like a weapon.
It was during one of those lectures that my patient Daddy finally snapped.
He stood up from his chair, voice low but firm, the kind of tone that made the air go still. “Leave her be, Marlene,” he said. “Stop callin’ her wicked.”
Mama froze, eyes wide like she couldn’t believe he’d spoken against her.
“My baby girl ain’t wicked,” Daddy said again, louder this time. “What happened to your daddy, Marlene honey, wasn’t our baby’s fault. You know how sick Charles was. Instead of blamin’ everybody, you oughta thank the Lord for sparin’ him from sufferin’. He’s gone, baby. You need to let him go and be at peace.”
The words hung in the air like thunder after lightning.
I watched Mama stare at Daddy for a long moment, her face unreadable; part shock, part fury, part heartbreak. Then she turned and walked out the door. The screen slammed behind her, and the sound echoed through the house like a final judgment.
She didn’t come back that night.
Nor the next day.
On the fourth day, Daddy got a call from a divorce attorney.
I remember sittin’ at the kitchen table, the phone pressed to his ear, his hand rubbin’ his forehead. The woman on the other end said Mama had filed for divorce. She wanted shared custody, but not primary. She didn’t want to take me back to Mississippi with her. She said she’d accept whatever arrangements the court decided.
When Daddy hung up, he didn’t look sad. He looked tired like he’d already seen it comin’. His shoulders sagged, and his eyes looked far away, like he was watchin’ somethin’ disappear he couldn’t stop.
I stood there cryin’, my chest hurtin’ so bad I could barely breathe. I kept sayin’, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry. I won’t be wicked no more. I won’t let the devil use me.”
Daddy pulled me close, his big arms wrappin’ around me like a blanket.
“Shhh, baby girl,” he whispered. “It’s alright, chile. You ain’t wicked. Your mama shouldn’t have filled your head with that nonsense. You’re your daddy’s baby. Your mama’s choices are her own. She may not want you right now, but she does love you. Never doubt that.”
His voice was steady, but I could feel the tremble in his chest. He was holdin’ back tears, tryin’ to be strong for me. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe Mama still loved me. But all I could hear was her voice echoing in my head,“Child of the devil.”
Mama didn’t want me.
And to a nine‑year‑old heart, there ain’t nothin’ that hurts more than that.
After that day, the house felt emptier. Daddy tried to keep things normal, makin’ pancakes on Sundays, playin’ old records, tellin’ me stories ’bout when he was a boy. But there was a quiet sadness in everything he did. He’d sit on the porch at night, starin’ out at the bayou, whisperin’ prayers under his breath. Sometimes I’d hear him say Mama’s name, soft and broken.
I’d sit beside him, leanin’ my head on his arm, and he’d pat my hair like he was remindin’ himself I was still there.
That’s when I realized what it meant to be caught in the middle, between a mother who feared me and a father who loved me enough to break. Between faith and blood, between silence and truth.
Daddy never stopped lovin’ Mama. But he learned that love couldn’t save her from herself.
And I learned that love, no matter how deep, can’t always keep a family whole.
