Page 33 of Truce Of The Matter

My mother’s chicken and dumplings aren’t traditional. She actually fries her chicken and dumplings then smothers them in a homemade, creamy gravy. It is my daddy’s favorite so I made a pan of it and surprisingly, Daija not only watched me prepare it, she helped.

“I regret not learning how to cook like her,” she says then sighs.

“I can teach you. It’s in your DNA; we just have to pull it out.”

“I wish it was. I’m nothing like you, Truce,” she says to my dismay. After turning the faucet off, I dry my hands on the drying cloth then grab her hand. “You are just like me; just a better version.”

“I can’t cook. My anxiety is through the roof and I panic in situations you are naturally calm in. You’re so strong and?—”

“You are strong too. I wish I was as brave as you sometimes. You left, moved to Atlanta by yourself, and are doing so good in school. I love you and your bravery.”

With a smile on her face, she says, “You have to say that because I’m your little sister.”

Her words cause a lump to form in my throat. I try hard to swallow it because there’s so much I want to say to her. No, Ineedto say to her. This has haunted me and lingered between us for far too long and the one person who stopped me from speaking on this is no longer here. It’s been long enough and now is as perfect of a time to tell Daija the truth.My truth, our truth.

When the lump goes down, I find the strength she believes I have and my voice. With my eyes trained on hers, I open my mouth to speak but the doorbell chimes throughout the house.

“It’s probably Porsh,” she says, referring to her best friend, and I nod.

She releases my hand and rushes out of the kitchen. Disappointed, I turn back toward the sink and rest my hands on it. I let out a sigh of frustration because keeping this inside has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I need to tell her. My mother forced me to keep this from Daija but I’m ready to let go of the hurt, trauma, and guilt I’ve been forced to carry all these years.

I’m still at the sink when Daija and Porsh walk into the kitchen. So I gather myself and turn around when I hear their voices. Porsh treks over to me and gives me a big hug.

“I made something. I didn’t want to bring it when all those people were here. It’s Daija’s favorite, my paella,” she says then glances back at Daija who’s holding a large plastic container.

“You didn’t have to do that bu?—”

“Um yes, she did,” Daija quickly interrupts. “I’ve missed this and I can’t wait to tear into this tonight.” She walks the paella to the fridge and places it inside. “You ready?” she asks Porsh.

“Yes, but are you wearing that?” Porsha asks as she gives Daija an overexaggerated once over.

“No. I have to change. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Where are you going?” I ask, sounding motherly not sisterly.

Daija catches my inflection too and it causes her to raise one eyebrow. Her lips purse then she says, “Um… to chill at Black Diamonds. Why?”

“Just asking,” I respond with a smile. “Have fun,” I add.

They head upstairs and I get back to the few dishes in the sink. As I’m drying the last plate, my dad enters the kitchen. He walks over and places his hand on my back. When I glance at him, he forces a wry smile on his aged face. “You need something, Daddy?”

“Nah, sweetie. I don’t need anything but the one thing I can’t have. But God knows best. I’m as good as I can be. Dinner was good; thank you.”

“Of course. There’s more in the fridge and Porsh just brought some of her seafood rice if you get hungry later. So eat, ’cause I worry so much about you and Daija too,” I say and he frowns a little.

“And what about you?” he asks pensively.

“Daddy, I’m fine,” I tell him, a little unsure of my own words. Telling Daija is weighing heavily on my mind.

“You are my daughter, sweetie. I know you, more than you think I do.” His eyes peer into mine and after staring for a moment, mutedly, he grabs my hand. While squeezing, he slowly nods then utters, “If you want to tell her now, you have my blessing.”

“What?” I question, because clearly he’s not talking about what I think he is.

“Daija,” he utters while nodding in approval.

Shocked. I’m in complete and utter disbelief.

For twenty-one years, my dad and my mother were a united front, a cohesive unit who forbade me from telling Daija. It was never an option. Never. Even up until the last day with her, my mom was adamant that our secret remained just that, a secret. So to hear my dad say these words is truly unbelievable. While my words have completely escaped me, my emotions haven’t. His blessing mends my first heartbreak and causes a tsunami of tears to erupt from my eyes. When his strong arms wrap around me, I really lose it and cry the tears I’ve been forced to shed in private.

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