Page 53 of Invisible Bars
Ms. Shirley nodded, not pushing for more; she never did.
“And Ms. Shirley… you can call her by her first name. Shemightjust be a permanent resident here soon.”
Her eyes widened just a touch—just enough to clock surprise, but not enough to comment.
That was the thing about all of my employees: they didn’t gossip, meddle, or pry into business that wasn’t theirs. As forMs. Shirley… yeah, we talked. She’d joke, here and there, even school me on things without raising her voice. But she knew where the line was, and she never crossed it. Like, she’d never asked why I kept cameras in places where most people wouldn’t—although I was sure that was something all of my employees were curious about. However, I’m sure the NDAs they signed stopped them from prying or going to the public about my business.
Ms. Shirley just cooked, hummed her gospel songs in the kitchen, sprinkled her prayers over the food… even prayed for me, when I didn’t believe in anything but power, control, and revenge.
“Oh! How lovely,” she said with a soft smile. “But before you go, is there anything specific you’d like for dinner?”
“I’m cool with whatever you choose. As for Naji, I’ll need to find out her likes and dislikes. But I don’t think she’ll be joining us this evening.”
Ms. Shirley chuckled, already knowing why. “Probably not… not with what I gave her.”
I smirked faintly.
“Well, you be safe, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. Call me if you need me,” I said as I reached for the door.
“I always do, but I think we’ll be just fine,” she replied, her voice calm and maternal.
And just like that, I stepped out into the world, leaving one of the women in my life, who I trusted, behind in my house… baking cornbread and keeping the peace.
Ms. Shirley was the only employee I held conversations like that with. She wasn’t just staff; she was family—the kind I chose. I met her four years prior. I was passing through Crenshaw, hungry as hell, and she was sitting outside of a corner store selling homemade pies from a fold-up table. Her apron wasstained, her eyes were tired, and her sign was barely holding on with duct tape. But she smiled at every single person who walked past… even the ones who didn’t stop.
When I asked how much for the whole table, she laughed like I was joking, then realized I wasn’t. I gave her five hundred for the pies. It wasn’t charity or pity. I bought every pie because I was hungry, for food, yeah, but also for the kind of energy she carried.
I took a bite of the peach cobbler, and my soul damn near left my body. That was the best damn peach cobbler I’d ever tasted.
Still the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
It was like it had been made by somebody’s great-great-grandmama in a kitchen kissed by heaven.
Wanting to try out more of her pies—and to hear herstory—I surprised even myself when I pulled out a chair and sat down beside her. Everyone has a story, and hers felt like one that had been bottled up too long, sealed tight under years of sacrifice and silence and finally needing air.
I took a bite of that warm apple pie and leaned back just enough to ask, “So how’d you end up here? Doing this? Or is this just a hobby for you?”
Surprisingly, she opened up.
No hesitation. No sugarcoating.
Ms. Shirley went into depth about how life had knocked her down more times than she could count. How grief took over when her husband passed away from a sudden stroke that came unexpectedly. Said she woke up one day married and went to bed a widow. Then her only child—her son—got locked up after a fight turned deadly. It was self-defense, but the system didn’t care. Ten years. Gone.
A simple reminder that pain could visit even the kindest of people.
She also mentionedhow she spent decades of her life cooking and cleaning for a wealthywhitefamily—raising their kids, making their holidays shine, caring for them like her own. But once word got out about her son’s charges, they let her go.
No thank you. No severance. Just “We’ll call you if we need you”—but they never did.
After that, nobody would hire her. Ms. Shirley didn’t have the proof, but she was more than confident her previous bosses were behind it. Despite that, she still woke up and made food with love in her hands even when she had none left for herself.
Two years… that’s how long she struggled before our paths crossed.
That day, I didn’t just taste her cobbler; I tasted her strength. And I knew right then, if she could still show up for people after all she’d been through, she deserved someone to finally show up for her. So I hired her.
“I ain’t no beggar,” she told me. “But I was praying for a door… something to open… just a crack. And here you came.”
