Arthur survived the surgery. He returned in time for Zora’s first Christmas. He sat in our living room, holding the little girl with her dark curls and bright, intelligent eyes.
“She looks like you,” he told me.
“She looks like herself,” I said.
We were an odd family. A Black retired nurse, her ex-military brother, a single mother, and a white billionaire tycoon. But we were a family.
One evening, Olivia stood by the window, watching the snow fall.
“You know, Mom,” she said. “I used to be ashamed when people stared at us. When they whispered about our background. Lucille made me feel like I was dirt.”
“And now?”
“Now?” She smiled, lifting Zora into the air. “Now I know the truth. Strength isn’t about pedigree. It isn’t about money or pure bloodlines. It’s about what you do when you’re bleeding in the woods.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“It’s dirty blood,” she joked, kissing Zora’s cheek.
