Page 36 of The Price of My Sins

“Say it, nigga! I dare you!” Aunt KeKe snapped from the folding chair behind him. Her neck rolled with every syllable as she pointed her grilled corn like a weapon. “I dare you to finish that sentence… standing there lookin’ like Mr. Brown in them tight-ass plaid pants, talkin’ greasy.”

The whole table burst into laughter, even Uncle Junior, who was too drunk to be offended and too country to care.

“You got it, baby.” He chuckled, holding his stomach. “Damn, always gotta take it there.”

“Take it there? You've been living there!” Aunt KeKe shot back. “Now, hush up and go eat your baked beans before you embarrass this whole family.”

I shook my head. There banter was nothing new which was why the whole family tuned in when they argued because they were sure enough going to get a good laugh.

The music kept bumping, laughter filled the air, and the grill smoke swayed through the golden streaks of the setting sun. It was a perfect evening, one of those rare moments where everything felt damn near peaceful.

Then, I saw Grandma step out the back door, holding a foiled pan, and sat it on the food table. She had a look on her face I remembered as kid—one that was calm but focused. The same look she used to wear right before she snatched somebody up for acting out in church.

I watched her walk toward my mama, who was mid-laugh, dancing with Olivia and Lexi, when Grandma leaned in and whispered something in her ear.

That’s when I saw it. Her whole body stiffened. Her shoulders locked up like she’d just been hit with ice water. She blinked a few times, like whatever Grandma said needed a second to process.

Then, her eyes found mine across the yard. I paused mid-sip of my drink, watching her watching me. She looked shaken. Not scared but unsettled, and I didn’t like the shit. What the fuck was going on?

She turned back to Grandma, and they exchanged a few quiet words I couldn’t hear over the bass thumping through thespeakers. Whatever it was, it wasn’t long. Grandma touched her arm gently, gave her a look, and my mama gave a short nod.

They both walked straight into the house without another word. My eyes followed them the whole way because something was off.

I set my cup down on the cooler and walked toward the house, easing the screen door open and entering inside. I slowed my steps and moved closer to the kitchen, staying just out of sight in the hallway, when I heard my grandma's uneasy voice.

“You need to tell him, Zora,” my grandmother said, firm but gentle. “That boy deserves the truth.”

“I know! But you had no right butting in my business,” my mother replied angrily.

Then I heard a man’s voice say, “Wait a damn minute, Zora. You've been hiding my son from me for thirty-three years? You looked me in the face and said he wasn’t mine when I asked you. Told me there was no chance, and now… I gotta hear from your mother that I got a whole grown-ass son out here?”

“You don’t get to be mad now, Charles,” she shot back, but the bite in her voice was gone. “You didn’t want a baby. Ain’t that what you said to me when I told you that I might be pregnant.”

“Yes. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t take care of my responsibilities!”

“Enough! What’s done is done. Y’all need to tell Boris the truth.”

“Tell me the truth about what?” I stepped into the kitchen after hearing enough.

All three heads snapped in my direction.

My mother froze, her eyes wide with panic, mouth parting like the words were caught in her throat. The man was tall and built, with eyes too familiar to be ignored, staring at me. His face was unreadable, but I could see something flicker there. Regret, maybe? Or recognition? That was possible also. Grandma let outa long sigh as if she knew this moment had been creeping toward us for years.

“Baby…” my mother said, inching toward me. “I?—”

I threw up my hand to stop her, my heart hammering in my chest. “Nah. Don’t baby me. I need answers. Now!” I pointed directly at the man. “And who the hell is this nigga?”

He stepped forward calmly, voice low but certain. “My name is Charles Boris Smith.”

My brows pulled tight. “And? The hell that got to do with me?”

He looked at me, then really looked at me, and I felt like I was staring at an older, wearier version of myself. Same build. Same jaw. Same damn eyes.

“According to your mother, I’m your father.”

The words hit me square in the chest.

I blinked before laughing once, hollow and humorless. “Nah. No. My father’s name was Henry. I put a bullet in that nigga and sent him straight to hell,” I said with malice, my voice rough.

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