Like you can't erase me." Loretta pressed down on middle C, letting it ring. Our people used music to survive things that should have killed us. slave songs, spirituals, gospel, blues. Every note was a weapon. Amara looked up at her grandmother. "Against what?" "Against anyone who tries to make you small.
The memory shifted. Now Amara was 12. Her grandmother stood at the stove stirring a pot of soup that smelled like heaven. The kitchen light was warm and yellow. Grandma H.
Why didn't you ever get famous? You're better than people on the radio. Loretta laughed softly. Fame isn't the same as success, baby. But you went to Juilliard.
You told me that's like the best music school in the world. It is. So why didn't you? I did what mattered. Loretta turned from the stove wooden spoon still in her hand.
I taught kids in the church who couldn't afford real lessons. I wrote songs nobody recorded, but everybody sang. I raised you. She tapped the spoon gently against Amara's nose, leaving a tiny dot of broth. That's a life, sweetheart.
Maybe not a famous one, but a good one. Another shift. Amara was 14 now. The memory she hated most. The hospital room was too white, too clean, too full of machines that beeped and hissed like they were counting down something inevitable.
Her grandmother lay in the bed thinner than she'd been a month ago. The cancer had moved fast. Come here, baby. Amara moved to the bedside. She'd been crying for days, but right now her eyes were dry.
Empty. Loretta reached out and took her hand. Her grip was weak, but she squeezed. I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?
Amara nodded. I'm not going to tell you everything's going to be okay. I don't know if it will be. Loretta's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. But I need you to promise me something.
Anything. Don't beg for pity. Not from anyone. Don't let them see you as something broken that needs fixing. She pulled Amara's hand to her chest right over her heart.