She smoothed her hands down the skirt, her reflection nodding back at her, calm and certain.
Yup…it was time to get married.
8
The crush of humanity inside Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport always made Reva feel like she was in the middle of a marching band parade—minus the music and charm. She navigated through the terminal in stilettos that clicked too loud on the tile, her roller bag nipping at her heels like an impatient toddler.
Outside, the thick Southern air hit her like a slap, clinging to her skin and puffing up her hair within seconds. Lord have mercy, she didn’t miss this part. The Wyoming mountains had their quirks—blizzards, wild bears, earthquakes of late—but at least you could breathe without feeling like you were being smothered in a damp quilt.
She picked up the rental car, a nondescript sedan that smelled like air freshener and old coffee, and merged onto the freeway, the skyline rising ahead like a glittering wall of steel and glass. Traffic thickened, a familiar snarl of brake lights and honking. As she eased into the chaos, her thoughts tangled with emotion. She wasn’t just heading to see her sick Grand Memaw. She was heading home—and that word had never felt so complicated.
The hospital lobby was a swirl of artificial calm—floor-to-ceiling windows tried to let in light, but the overhead fluorescents fought back. Potted plants stood like sentries in the corners, and the air smelled of antiseptic and overworked HVAC. Nurses bustled past with clipboards and coffee cups. A television mounted on the wall broadcast a muted talk show no one was watching.
Reva stepped up to the front desk, smoothing her blouse, suddenly wishing she’d thought to reapply her lipstick. “Hi, could you tell me which room Rosetta Nygard is in?”
Before the young woman behind the counter could respond, a voice behind her wrapped around Reva like a velvet ribbon.
“There you are.”
Reva turned.
Her mother, Nadine Nygard, swept through the automatic doors like royalty returning to court. Her stride was graceful but determined, her spine arrow straight. She wore a navy sheath dress with pearl buttons, cream heels that never seemed to scuff, and a coordinating pillbox hat perched just so atop her meticulously pressed black curls. A faint whiff of gardenia trailed in her wake, and she carried a monogrammed leather handbag that had likely cost more than Reva’s first car.
Her makeup was flawless, of course—lipstick precisely drawn, lashes lifted, brows arched like question marks. But her eyes—those deep, mahogany eyes Reva had inherited—were lined with fatigue and something heavier beneath.
Her mama gathered her into a light, ladylike hug that smelled of home. “Ree-Ree, you finally made it.”
Reva held onto the hug a beat longer than she meant to. Her mother’s embrace had always been more composed than comforting—more about appearances than affection—but today, it felt different. Tighter. Real.
“She’s been askin’ for you,” her mama said softly, pulling back but keeping a hand on Reva’s arm as if grounding them both.
“How is she?” Reva asked, her voice catching before she could steady it.
Her mama’s expression faltered for the briefest moment, then firmed. “Stubborn as ever. But tired. She’s been holding court in that room like it’s her parlor. Still wants her lipstick, still critiques the nurses like they’re contestants in a pageant.” A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “But it’s…different now. She’s not bouncing back like she used to. She had a horrible episode. The doctors are saying it’s her heart. I suppose at age ninety-two, it’s just getting tired and giving out.”
Reva nodded, throat tight. “I should’ve come sooner.”
“Baby, you came when it mattered,” her mama said, pressing a hand to her cheek. “Now come on. Let’s get you upstairs. They’re all waiting.”
They stepped into the elevator, the doors closing with a quiet whoosh. Reva watched the numbers light up above the door as they ascended, her reflection in the brushed metal warped and tired. She tugged at the hems of her sleeves, suddenly self-conscious in her travel-wrinkled blouse.
The elevator dinged on the third floor, and they stepped into a hallway lined with cheerful art and bulletin boards announcing flu shots and prayer meetings. The hum of machines and muffled voices drifted from the rooms, punctuated by the occasional nurse’s laugh or the beeping of a monitor.
Outside room 312, her brother Quincy stood, tall and broad-shouldered in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His tie hung loose around his neck like he’d tried to look presentable and gave up halfway through. Next to him, Scarlett, his wife, clutched a quilted purse and offered a weak smile when she saw Reva.
“There she is,” Quincy said, his voice rough as he pulled Reva into a one-armed hug that felt both strong and sagging with fatigue.
Her older brother, Mason, nodded. “Memaw’s been askin’ for you every ten minutes. You’d think we were chopped liver.”
Scarlett reached for Reva’s hand. “We’re so glad you’re here. It means a lot to her. To all of us.”
Reva swallowed hard, heart pounding in her chest like a drumbeat she couldn’t slow. Behind the door, the woman who raised them all—who made sweet tea strong enough to cure anything and never let a soul leave her house hungry—was waiting.
Her mama stepped forward, smoothing the front of her dress. “Let’s go on in. But fair warning—despite her frailty, she’s in rare form. Told the doctor this morning she didn’t care for his handshake.”
Reva smiled faintly, her nerves settling into something else. Something like reverence.
The door creaked softly as Reva stepped into the hospital room.
