Three months after I had left Mama’s house, Uncle Ronnie called Daddy. Mama had gone and married Darnell; the same man who put his hands on her, the same man she chose over me.
Uncle James almost went to jail for beatin’ Darnell in front of the congregation. He saw Mama with a busted lip and a black eye and lost it. Mama refused to leave Darnell, so now both Uncle James and Uncle Terry cut contact with her.
Ronnie’s voice over the phone was tired, worn down.
“Man, Elias, I don’t know what’s wrong with her. After what she did to Anaïs, we tried talkin’ to her, tried gettin’ her to leave that man, but she kept sayin’ we was tryin’ to ruin her life. Like… be for real. She doin’ that all on her own.”
He sighed hard.
“You know that muthafucker got a baby on the way with that girl Tanika Hall; she’s only twenty‑three. Marlene knows but act like she dumb, blind, and stupid. And that ain’t the only baby. He got a new girl every few months through the church. I don’t know, man. I don’t wanna give up on her, but it’s somethin’ every week.”
Daddy didn’t have much to say. Even though he and Mama were divorced, he still had a good relationship with my uncles. They loved him like a brother. But none of them could accept Darnell and they shouldn’t.
I felt sorry for them. But not for Mama.
Whatever she was goin’ through wasn’t my burden anymore.
It took time and a whole lot of quiet nights alone with my thoughts to finally admit the truth: Mama had abused me. Not with her hands, but with her words, her fear, her righteousness, her religion. She never hit me, never raised a belt or a fist, but she carved deep wounds in places nobody could see. Wounds that took longer to heal because they were invisible, buried under guilt and scripture and the desperate need to be loved.
I used to tell myself Mama had turned me away from the church, but that was a lie. I never blamed God. I never blamed faith. I blamed the way Mama used it; as a weapon, as a shield, as a justification for every cruel thing she said. She ruined the church for me. Ruined the idea of fellowship, community, and worship.
I didn’t, and still don’t, judge anybody who follows the teachings of God. But I can’t see myself ever sittin’ in another Southern church pew. Too many hypocrites. Too many nasty hearts hidin’ behind scripture. Too many people who smiled at Mama while callin’ me wicked behind their hands. The church became a place where I learned shame before I learned grace, fear before I learned faith.
Back in St. Martin Parish, I threw myself into learnin’ who I was; not who Mama wanted me to be. I explored the things I liked and didn’t like without wonderin’ if it made me evil or unlovable. I acted like a fifteen‑year‑old, soon to be sixteen, should.
I made friends; girls Mama would’ve frowned upon for bein’ “too worldly,” “too loud,” “too free.” I went to movies, skating rinks, football games, and late‑night hangouts with kids from school. I went on a few dates with boys my age; always with Daddy’s permission and a strict curfew.
I did normal teenage things. I made mistakes. I learned. I grew.
At first, I was scared Daddy would abandon me the way Mama did. That one wrong move would make him pack his bags and leave. That I’d wake up one morning and find the house empty again. But after a few talks with him, long, honest ones, I realized Daddy wasn’t goin’ anywhere. He understood. He was proud of me for steppin’ outside the box Mama tried to lock me in.
Grandma Odette approved too. She’d sit on her porch, sortin’ herbs, and say, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with actin’ out every now and again, chile. Better you get it out your system now than let it hit you when you get old. Don’t want you turnin’ out like them girls yonder down the tracks.”
She’d laugh, shake her head, and keep workin’, but her words stuck with me. She wanted me to live. To breathe. To be free. To understand that joy wasn’t a sin, and curiosity wasn’t a curse.
After that botched summer, I held true to my bottom line: I wasn’t goin’ back. Not to her house. Not to her rules. Not to her judgment.
Mama tried callin’. She tried writin’. But I ignored her; just like she ignored me all those years.
Her letters were sermons, excuses, scripture, guilt. Not love. Not apology. Not accountability.
Unlike her, I didn’t pretend to keep them. I burned them.
Not out of rebellion. Not out of anger.
Burning the letters was a release. A way to let go of the past hurts and the woman who gave them to me. Reading them wouldn’t have helped me grow. It would’ve dragged me backward.
I watched the paper curl and blacken, watched the ink melt into ash, watched the words Mama wrote disappear into smoke. It felt like exhaling after holdin’ my breath for years.
Maybe one day, when I’m older, I’ll entertain a distant relationship with Mama. Maybe.
But right now? I’m focused on healing. On becoming myself. On discovering who Anaïs is without fear, without shame, without the shadow of Marlene’s voice callin’ me wicked.
I’m learnin’ to be Anaïs. And for the first time in my life, that feels like enough.
