Wouldn’t Change a Thing Read Free

stand in my robe and slippers and yell, “You are trespassing. Please leave the premises.”

Chapter 2

    A fter Lamonte leaves, I swipe a casual outfit from my closet and run to the office to pick up a few items I left last week. Most of my personal and household items are at a storage unit on Virginia Avenue. The drive from Atlanta to Conyers isn’t far, but Lamonte and I decided it would be easier for me to move into his house before the wedding. I have a few items at his place, but next week, I’ll move the bulk of my storage contents to his house. Our house.
    My home is a management company’s dream: hardwood floors, fresh paint, a new roof, stained-glass windows, and exotic tile. Nothing says 1930 meets 2007 like modern upgrades. After five unsuccessful attempts to find a renter, I struck gold with an Atlanta Art Institute student. After a credit check and three separate creep-ups on her current apartment, I presented Giovanna with a lease. I think of her as I enter the building. This is where I first met her.
    My hope is no one notices me as I dart in and out. I’m down to five to-dos on my party checklist for tonight. I can’t stop trembling, and my stomach is in knots over the party. How many people will show after reading the article? How will Lamonte react when someone brings up my mother?
    Phillip, the doorman at my office building, opens the door for me and tips his hat, but averts his eyes, a first for him. I speed up, hoping to get this done and get out of the building ASAP.
    I place a picture of Clay, Russell, and me in Cancun in a large box on my office chair. This will be one of the photos I place on the family portraits display at the Blue Willow Inn this evening. I gather up a few more items and check a few emails before leaving the office. I suspended work emails on my phone because I disconnect when I leave this place. Lamonte taught me how to unwind, kick up my feet once I step away from computer drafts. I log on and the first email I read takes my breath away.
    Dear Ms. Williamson:
    Due to recent findings, we regret to inform you that your donation to Daughters Alone will be returned to you within the week. Furthermore, your invitation as keynote speaker at our annual empowerment series has been rescinded. We cannot expose the girls to someone whose idea of motherhood is tainted and shrouded in lies. The girls looked up to you and even went out of their way to comfort you after learning your mother died in a plane crash when you were their age. We appreciate the time you’ve given the girls thus far—workshops, career day, tour of your firm—but the revelation that your mother is alive and well, albeit in horrific circumstances, makes it impossible to continue the mentorship agreement we have with you. I wish you well in your future endeavors.
    Dr. Erin Crawford, CEO, Daughters Alone
    I stare at the screen. Of all the work I’ve done in the community, mentoring with Daughters Alone has been the most rewarding. I pick up the phone to call Dr. Crawford and notice the email arrived at six o’clock this morning. She probably read the article after the paperboy tossed it on her porch around four-thirty. She boasted of being a zombie until her morning fix of coffee and the AJC kicked in.
    As I hang the phone up, Kimmie Foster’s face comes to mind. She was most smitten with me when I joined the girls for the Orange Hat Tea at Restaurant Eugene. I didn’t get the orange hat reference until Dr. Crawford said orange represented the sunset, a new start. The girls, all left motherless by death, drugs, or abandonment, needed encouragement, hope for a better day. Kimmie sat next to me at the tea wearing a cream-colored Sunday-go-to-meeting suit that hung off her thin frame. I knew I’d purchase her new outfits with Dr. Crawford’s permission. She pulled at the coffee-colored stockings that resembled elephant wrinkles and crossed and uncrossed her skinny