The Wall Where Her Mother Used to Be

Sixteen-year-old Nia Brooks came through the front door on Friday afternoon with a smile she hadn't worn in weeks.

“Hi, Dad!”

She kicked off her sneakers beside the entryway, dropped her backpack onto the bench, and started telling her father about the chemistry test she'd somehow managed to pass.

Then she looked toward the living room.

Her words stopped.

The wall above the sofa was empty.

Not rearranged. Not freshly decorated.

Empty.

For as long as Nia could remember, that wall had held photographs of her family. There was one of her mother laughing at a Fourth of July barbecue, another from Nia's eighth-grade graduation, and a large portrait of all three of them taken during a summer trip to the beach.

Her favorite showed her mother, Simone, wearing a red headwrap, her smile so wide it made her eyes nearly disappear.

Now even the hooks were gone.

Nia stood perfectly still.

“Dad?”

Andre Brooks looked up from the dining table, where he'd been sorting through some paperwork.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?”

She pointed toward the wall.

“Where are Mom's pictures?”

Andre glanced toward the kitchen.

That single movement told Nia something terrible.

He already knew.

Before he could answer, Monique stepped out of the kitchen carrying a dish towel. She had married Andre four months earlier, and until that afternoon, Nia had tried hard to make their relationship work.

Monique folded the towel and set it on the counter.

“Oh, those,” she said. “I took them down.”

Nia stared at her.

“You what?”

“I took the photographs down. I think it's time this house started feeling like a home for your father and me.”

Nia looked back at the blank wall.

Her mother had been dead for only a year.

For twelve months, Nia had been learning how to live without the woman who braided her hair before school, sang loudly while cooking, and always remembered exactly how much cinnamon she liked in her French toast.

And now someone had erased her from the living room.

“You don't get to do that,” Nia said.

Monique's expression tightened.

“Excuse me?”

“You don't get to decide my mother doesn't belong in her own house.”

“Nia,” Andre warned quietly.

She turned toward him.

“Dad, did you let her do this?”

Andre rubbed his forehead.

“No one is trying to disrespect your mother.”

“Then where are her pictures?”

“We're just making some changes. You can keep the photographs you want in your bedroom.”

Nia stared at him as though he had become a stranger.

“My bedroom?”

Andre stood.

“Nia, please listen—”

“So Mom's only family when my bedroom door is closed?”

Her voice rose.

Monique crossed her arms.

“You're making this much bigger than it needs to be.”

That was when Nia finally lost control.

“My mother died!” she shouted. “She didn't abandon this family! She didn't walk away from us!”

Andre flinched.

“You can marry someone else, Dad. You can have another wife. But I can't just go find another mother!”

Tears spilled down Nia's cheeks.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then she noticed a cardboard box tucked beside the staircase.

The corner of a familiar wooden frame was sticking out.

Nia crossed the room, dropped to her knees, and pulled it free.

It was the portrait of her mother in the red headwrap.

The glass was dusty.

Nia wiped it with her sleeve.

She remembered the day the picture was taken. Simone had complained about the heat, laughed when the camera timer failed, and insisted they try again because Andre had blinked.

Nia pressed the frame against her chest.

“You could've asked me,” she whispered.

She looked at her father.

“You could've asked before taking her away from me again.”

Andre opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Nia stood and walked toward the stairs.

Monique remained beside the kitchen counter, watching her go.

Andre took one uncertain step forward.

“Nia—”

She didn't turn around.

Halfway up the staircase, however, she glanced down at the cardboard box.