When my sister Ruth finally found me, I was sitting on a twin bed in an upstairs room, my left eye still bruised. Marcus filled the doorway, blocking the exit. Ruth looked at my face and asked the question I’d choked on for months: “Why isn’t she living in the house she bought with Otis?” Marcus didn’t hesitate. He smiled and said, “That house is my wife’s now. And if my mother keeps talking, I’ll hit her again and she’ll wear that color for weeks.”

“Mama, here—” He stopped when he saw Ruth. His face tightened. “Aunt Ruth. What a surprise.”

“Marcus.” Ruth’s voice was controlled, strange, like she was holding something dangerous back. “Why is your mother living here?”

“It’s temporary,” Marcus said quickly. “Just until she finds something better.”

“Better than the house she bought with her husband?” Ruth shot back. “The house where she raised you?”

Marcus shrugged, that lazy gesture he used for everything now, like other people’s lives were irrelevant.

“Circumstances changed.”

“What circumstances?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Ruth took a step toward him. I had never seen her like that. Ruth had always been the quiet one, the peacemaker, the one who avoided conflict. But now there was something fierce behind her eyes.

“Yes, it is my business,” she said. “Eta is my sister, and I want to know why she isn’t living in the house she bought with her late husband.”

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