Chapter 2: Secrets and Sacrifices

The second month after my father’s death, my mother took the money we had left and went to the end of the block, to Mrs. Kline’s house.

Mrs. Kline was a legend in our neighborhood, equal parts midwife and miracle worker. Folks said if you had nowhere else to turn, she’d take you in—no questions asked. Her porch was cluttered with old rocking chairs, wind chimes, and the sharp scent of eucalyptus.

Mrs. Kline was a remarkable woman, known for her skilled hands. Some whispered that Mrs. Kline could patch up a reputation as easily as she patched a torn hem—no questions asked.

People joked about it in the church basement, calling her a fixer of reputations and a keeper of secrets. She wore her hair in a tight bun and never smiled, except to children.

But it was said to be agonizingly painful. Once, a young woman screamed all night and nearly died from it.

Everyone remembered the night of the screaming. Even Mr. Harris, who lived two houses over, said the sound curdled his blood. Afterward, nobody looked the girl in the eye for weeks.

Yet when my mother came back, she didn’t make a sound of pain—her face just looked a little pale.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, lips pressed thin. There was a small bruise beneath her left eye, but she wouldn’t say how it got there.

She called me over: “Lila, from now on, you mustn’t call me ‘Mom’ anymore. Only ‘Big Sis.’ Do you know why?”

Her voice was gentle but steely, as if she’d made up her mind and nothing could sway her. I tried to read her face, searching for the mom I knew, but all I found was a stranger wearing her smile. The way she said 'Big Sis' sounded odd, almost playful, but there was a catch in her throat.

I nodded. “I understand.”

I didn’t, not really, but I’d learned by then to nod and keep my questions quiet. In our house, silence was a form of love.

My mother smiled and praised me for being so mature.

She touched my cheek, her thumb lingering at my jaw. “You’re my brave girl, Lila. You always have been.”

She took me to Savannah, found a rundown old house, and settled us there.

We unpacked our lives into a house that smelled like old rain and forgotten laundry, but Mom just tied her hair up with a rubber band and got to work.

Then, on the main street in front of the governor’s mansion, she set up a huge kettle and started selling lamb stew.

The mansion’s iron gates glinted in the Georgia sun, and the kettle steamed as the first customers arrived, drawn by the smell. My mother’s eyes never left the front porch, as if daring someone to come down and taste what she’d made.