Too soon, I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home. With its brownish-red brick, charcoal roof, and well-manicured lawn, my parents’ house looked like a clone of all the others on our cul-de-sac. Still, I could make out the small additions they had made in anticipation of the Knocking*: two large ceramic pots brimming with petunias in the entryway, a row of solar-powered lanterns that lined the walkway to the front door, a thin but gloriously blooming crepe myrtle my parents had probably fought the homeowner’s association to plant. I thought about stealing one of the petunias to tuck behind my ear but thought better of it and rang the doorbell instead.
My mother was at the door in a flash, her magenta maxi dress floating around her like the petals of an orchid. She was still strikingly beautiful. She hated when I said that—“Still! Am I abrewa* already?”—but it was true. Dealing with my, Tabatha’s, and Daddy’s bullshit for a quarter century plus somehow hadn’t put a crack in that silky smooth skin of hers.
“Where’s Frederick?” she asked.
Probably, I thought, because she’s preserved in brine.
“Nice to see you too, Momma, you look lovely,” I said. I stepped around her and gave Auntie Abena, who had come to Chicago for a short trip that, so far, had lasted four months, a nod. “Auntie.”
“Yes, where is that fine boy you said you were bringing?” Auntie Abena said.
“He’s not coming,” I said, toeing off my shoes by the door. Saying it out loud stung more than I’d anticipated, and I took a deep, settling breath to recalibrate. “It smells amazing in here, Auntie. Did you make nkatenkwan?”
“How did you know I didn’t make it?” Momma said.
I shot my mother a disbelieving look. Despite being the picture of the perfect Ghanaian woman, my mother’s skills in the kitchen were notoriously lacking. She could crank out a reasonable kontomire, throw together an ampesi that Grandma wouldn’t side-eye, but anything more complex was a wash. If it weren’t for our omnipresent crashing aunties, I probably would’ve grown up on takeout.
“Where’s Daddy?” I shouted, walking down the hall to drop off my bag in my room.
“Looking at himself,” Momma shouted back. “Tell him he has to hurry up. Christopher and Gregory will be here any minute.” When I circled back into the kitchen, she grabbed a hold of my arm, turning me around to face her. “So why isn’t Frederick here? It would have been good for him to watch, for when he knocks.”
Frederick, knocking, for me? When we first started dating, I’d seen it. Frederick standing at my door, bolstered by the parents I had never met, a bottle of ostentatiously expensive gin tucked under his arm. The image seemed preposterous now. Still, at its resurgence, my body ached with yearning.
“We broke up,” I admitted in a small voice.
Momma’s eyes widened. Then she released me, smoothing her hands down her dress with a huff.
“Ah, well, lawyers don’t make that much money these days anyway.” She narrowed her eyes critically at my hair, reaching up to fluff the crop of tight curls. “You know, I don’t think this hairstyle is helping you. You know how these men are; they like their women with hair down their backs. Before you leave, you should try on one of my wigs. And we can take you around church; a few nice young men joined the congregation recently, and Sister Lisa has said some of them are looking—”
“I’m going to check on Daddy,” I said with finality.
But before I could step toward my parents’ bedroom, the doorbell rang.
It was Chris, right on time at ten thirty. Chris was the most punctual Black person I had ever met, a peculiar match for the perpetually late Tabatha. Thankfully, his patience was about as infinite as his love for my sister. At least from the outside, their relationship was by the book. Chris and Tabatha dated for the appropriate amount of time—three years, long enough to prove that Chris was serious, not so long that his intentions could be questioned. He was respectful, tall （which Daddy liked）， African American （which Daddy liked a little less）， and had recently landed a six-figure job as a mechanical engineer three months after walking the stage at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. When Tabatha insisted on moving to Evanston to pursue her MBA after graduation, Chris left his beloved college town behind and followed her north, spending hours in our living room chatting with our father and sipping Muscatella. We all knew it was only a matter of time before he knocked, but when?