After Mama left, the house felt different, quieter, but not empty. There were back‑and‑forth phone calls between lawyers, folks bein’ nosy, and whispers floatin’ around town like smoke. Still, Daddy kept movin’ forward. He didn’t crumble. He didn’t fall apart. He didn’t let me see the hurt sittin’ heavy in his chest.
In front of me, Daddy kept on smilin’, carryin’ on like Mama never left. But I knew better. I could see the sadness tucked behind his eyes, the way he sighed when he thought I wasn’t listenin’, the way he lingered on the porch at night starin’ at the sky like he was waitin’ for somethin’ to come back.
Daddy had a simple philosophy on life; one he repeated to me more than once.
“Babygirl, it’s ok to love. But never let anybody tell you more than once they don’t want you.”
He’d say it slow, voice deep and steady, like he was speakin’ from a place he’d been trapped in for years.
“I gave your mama too many chances to let me love her in the best way I knew how. Still wasn’t enough. I gotta accept that and move on.”
He’d pause then, rub his hands together, look down at the floor like he was facin’ a truth he didn’t want to say.
“My only regret is that in my stubbornness to hold onto that love, I ended up hurtin’ you, babygirl. And for that, I’m sorry. Your mama hurt you with her words and fearmongerin’. I allowed that. So now I gotta own up to that failin’.”
Daddy was tryin’. I saw it every day.
He spent more time with me after school, helped me with homework, cooked dinner even when he burned the rice, and didn’t force me to go back to church if I didn’t want to. I didn’t hate the church; I hated what Mama had turned it into. She had turned those people against me, her own nine‑year‑old daughter.
To the women she called friends, Mama told stories, exaggerated tales ’bout me bein’ wicked, disrespectful, “touched by the devil.” She twisted normal childhood mistakes into signs of evil. And they believed her.
The Sunday after Mama left, Daddy took me back to church, tryin’ to keep my routine steady. We sat in the pews, and I could hear the whispers floatin’ around me like gnats.
“Look here, see her. She finally drove her own mama out.” “Poor Marlene, havin’ to deal with such a wicked chile.” “Hmm, couldn’t be me. I would’ve sent that little heathen packin’. Give her to the state or somethin’.”
I sat there quiet, hands folded, tryin’ not to cry. Daddy heard every word.
He stood up slow, turned around, and looked those women dead in their faces.
“Instead of worryin’ ’bout my baby, Gladis, worry ’bout that crooked‑ass wig you got on your head.”
The whole church went silent.
“And Doris,” he said, “I see your girl ain’t with you. She still hoppin’ from man to man bed gettin’ high off that stuff? Don’t act all high and mighty blamin’ my child for the lies her mama told. Don’t worry ’bout my home, you triflin’, hypocritical bitches, when your own house dirtier than the drawers you wear.”
Gasps. Murmurs. A dropped Bible.
Clear to say, we never went back to that church.
Word traveled fast in St. Martin Parish. By the time we got home, Grandma Odette already knew. She laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes.
“‘Bout time,” she said, patting Daddy’s shoulder. “You finally returnin’ to the man you was before Marlene dimmed your light.”
Let’s be clear. Daddy still loved Mama. But he was startin’ to see that in lovin’ her, he’d lost himself. He’d become someone he never thought he’d be quiet, small, afraid to breathe wrong.
Now that Mama was gone, Elias Sinclair started doin’ the things he enjoyed again.
He liked goin’ out on the town, sittin’ at the bar talkin’ to folks he found interestin’. He liked sittin’ on the porch with Mr. Willy, smokin’ and drinkin’ whiskey, laughin’, tellin’ childhood stories, playin’ dominoes and spades. He liked rap, blues, jazz; any music that caught his ear.
All the things that made Daddy Daddy; he had buried them to suit Mama.
Well, Mama was gone.
And all that remained was the man she had tried to smother… just like she tried to smother me.
Daddy’s strength wasn’t loud. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t cruel.
His strength was in reclaimin’ himself, piece by piece, day by day, and makin’ sure I learned how to do the same.
