Page 12 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“What’s going on?” I ask, realizing it’s been three weeks since I’ve seen them. Recovering from the GMAT, my work schedule, the start of the semester—it all piled up. I didn’t mean to go so long without checking in.

Mama makes a sad sound and looks down as she shakes her head.

“Baby girl! What are you doing here?” Daddy’s deep baritone rumbles down the hall, reminding me of the years when he was a pastor before the church shut down. It’s an unconscious movement when I speed up to give him a hug, leaving Mama behind.

“I missed you and Ma is all. Decided to make the trek from campus,” I say with my head tucked beneath his in a tight hug.

He squeezes me as he always does, lifting me up as he leans back so my feet dangle in the air.

“What happened?” I ask again.

Daddy frowns. “You didn’t read the prayer line group chat?”

“Reginald,” Mama warns, coming up behind me to put her head on my shoulder. I grimace because, despite my protests not to add me to the text message thread, Daddy made sure I received the daily group updates about the community and the church.

Daily messages.

So, about a month ago, I silenced all the notifications, choosing to go in once a week to mark all the unread messages as read.

“What, Opal? First, she stopped coming to church on Sundays. Now, she’s ignoring us?”

Mamatsks. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

Daddy grumbles in response, and I can’t help but notice the new lines around his mouth and forehead or the way the darkness and bags beneath his eyes show just how tired he must be.

“So,” I drawl. “Is anyone gonna tell me what happened?”

Daddy pinches the skin between his eyebrows, but Mama jumps in.

“Not here. Reggie, you need to eat, and I don’t wanna discuss this in the hallway,” Mama says as she pushes me forward. Daddy comes along. When I pass his office, the messiness shocks me. Reams of papers stack tall on the reclaimed metal desk donated from a school, and there are even thick binders, one on top of the other, next to his worn rolling chair.

But I don’t get to examine the space for long before Mama pushes us into the break room.

“Sit, both of you. It’s gonna be microwaved, but it’s better than nothing,” she says, releasing her breath in a light sigh.

I turn back to Daddy as she pulls the Tupperware from the apartment-sized fridge.

“Really, the suspense is killing me,” I press. Daddy breathes deep before releasing it, dropping his shoulders.

“There was another drive-by shooting last week. A fourteen-year-old was killed walking home from school.”

The energy in the space drops several degrees, sadness mingling with the smell of Cajun spices coming from across the room.

“I hate that so much,” I rasp, crossing my arms over my chest as if to hold myself together.

Chicago is my home and there’s no other place like it—the history, the culture, the community. But in the last decade,the rise of gun violence has drawn the attention of all sorts of political pundits and other rich folks who think my home is some war-torn hellscape and that they can “save Chicago.”

None of them come through or stay long enough to actually make an impact. Usually, they’re here long enough to take a few pictures, kiss a few babies, andpoof.They’re gone like the wind.

“Yeah,” Daddy says. “His funeral is tomorrow. I’ve been working with the church to get resources together to give him a proper burial.”

I hum in response.

Another funeral.

So many damn funerals.

Mama places two plates in front of us, breaking the mood.

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