Page 45 of Love Letters from a Libra
“He does that to everyone he likes. I figured you might need a refill after that ordeal in there.” I turned to find Zanaa’s mother approaching with two glasses of sweet tea. I accepted the glass with a nod of gratitude.
“Thank you, and thank you for the meal. Everything was delicious.”
“Cooking is easy. It’s raising a daughter that will test you.” She patted the space beside her, a clear invitation.
I joined her, and Huckleberry immediately positioned himself at my feet. The yard was small, with immaculate flower beds bursting with color, a vegetable garden, and a mature peach tree in one corner. The care of the space spoke volumes about the woman beside me.
“Zanaa said you grew those herbs she brought me last month,” I commented, searching for neutral ground.
“Mmm. Been growing things since I was a girl in South Carolina. My daddy had the magic touch with plants, but you didn’t come out here to talk to me about my garden.” She sucked her teeth.
“Actually, Huckleberry invited me,” I joked lightly, but her expression remained serious.
“My daughter thinks the universe brings her exactly what she needs when she needs it. Got that from her daddy. He was all stars and signs and greater purpose too,” Patricia offered after a moment, her voice carrying weight that demanded attention. I stayed quiet, sensing there was more she needed to say.
“He left when Zanaa was eleven, said the universe was calling him to find himself. What he found was a twenty-five-year-old who lived in New Orleans, a convenient excuse to abandon his responsibilities.”
The revelations sat heavy between us. I thought of an eleven-year-old Zanaa, trying to make sense of her father walking away, perhaps looking to the stars for answers when the human ones failed her.
“She’s always been drawn to people who see the world differently, people who talk about energy and connection and cosmic purpose, but different didn’t mean stable. Just don’t be the kind of man who disappears when things aren’t spiritual anymore. Her father did that to me. Told me I was his soulmate,until I became just his wife with bills to pay and a child to raise.” Patricia continued, her gaze now direct and unflinching.
The warning was clear and deserved. I could defend myself, list all the ways I wasn’t like Zanaa’s father, provide evidence of my reliability, but that would miss the point entirely. This wasn’t about my eagle or about her approval. It was about a mother’s legitimate concern based on hard-earned wisdom.
I met her gaze without defensiveness. “I understand why you’re worried, and I can’t prove anything with words today. I’m not here for the signs. I’m here for her, even on the off days, especially on the off days.” Huckleberry shifted at my feet, his weight grounding presence.
She studied me. “You sound like you mean that.”
“I do.”
Patricia stood. “Guess we’ll see. What’s done in the dark always comes to light.”
“Yes, ma’am, I agree, and thank you.” I rose as well.
Her eyebrows arched. “For what, the third degree?”
I chuckled. “For raising someone who knew her worth and for the peach cobbler recipe. I heard you slipped it into her purse when you thought I wasn’t looking,” I replied.
This finally earned me a smile. “Don’t go thinking that means I decided about you yet.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Inside, we found the kitchen transformed, dishes washed, and leftovers packaged into containers clearly meant to go home with us. Zanaa and Toni appeared to be in what was the final round of a long-standing debate, while Aunt Camille and Mama Tilda watched with amused expressions.
Goodbyes took us nearly as long as the meal itself, hugs, promises to call, instructions on how to reheat the leftovers, and a final surprising warm handshake from Aunt Camille. By thetime we made it back to the car, Zanaa looked both relieved and exhausted, kicking off her heels.
The moment she buckled her seatbelt, she asked, “So, you gonna run now?”
The question carried a lightness that didn’t fully mask the vulnerability beneath. I thought about her mother’s warning, about patterns of disappearance, about the ease with which some men walked away from connections that demanded growth.
“Only if I’m running errands for your mom or Mama Tilda. Your aunt might still terrify me though,” I replied, earning a surprised laugh.
“As she should. Seriously, though, that was a lot, and they were not subtle.” Zanaa smiled, her hand reaching across the console to find mine.
I interlaced our fingers, recognizing the familiar shape of her ring against my palm. “They love you; they’re supposed to be difficult.”
She didn’t respond immediately, just held my hand as I navigated away from her home. Three months ago, this moment would’ve triggered my retreat reflexes for sure. It would’ve been too intimate, too much, too real. Now I leaned into it, allowing the quiet to hold us both.
“You and my mom seemed to have had a moment outside,” she noted as we stopped at a red light.
