Now, Paris is the oldest. And just the opposite of Charlotte. Probably too much. Never gave me no trouble to speak of. And even though you love the ones that come afterwards, that first one’ll always be something special. It’s when you learn to think about somebody besides yourself. At the time, I was sixteen and watched too many movies, which is how I got it in my mind that one day I was going to Paris and become a movie star like Dorothy Dandridge or Lena Horne and I’d wear long flowing evening gowns and sleep in satin pajamas. I wanted to speak French, because Paris, France, seemed like the most romantic place in the world, and back then I craved romance something fierce. But I didn’t expect it to come in the form it came in: Cecil. I used to close my eyes, laying right between my sisters: Suzie Mae on one side and Priscilla on the other. I’d smell bread baking and see red wine being poured in my glass and pale-yellow cheese being sliced and I could see the mist through those lace curtains and feel the cobblestone beneath my spiked heels. I heard accordions. Saw small wooden boats in dark-green water. But by the time I married Cecil and got pregnant—or, I should say, by the time I got pregnant and married Cecil—I knew the chances of me ever getting on a airplane going anywhere was slim to zero, so I named my daughter after the place I’d probably never see.

I made two mistakes: married the first man who was nice to me, who showed me some unfiltered attention and gave me endless pleasure in bed. But because of my particular kind of ignorance, my second major mistake was dropping outta high school at sixteen to have a baby. It wasn’t until five or six years down the road, when I was watching Casablanca on TV one night—alone—that I had to ask myself if I really loved Cecil. Would I go this far for him? Long before Humphrey and Ingrid even made it to the airport I knew the answer to that question was no. What I felt back then was comfortable—not comfort—just comfortable. There was no guesswork to our lives. But over the years all of it melted and turned into some kind of love, that much I do know.

Speaking of heat. All my kids are too hot in the ass—which they got from their daddy’s side of the family—and Paris ain’t no exception. It’s probably the reason they all been divorced at least once (except for Charlotte, of course, but that’s only ’cause she just too stubborn to admit defeat). All four of ’em married the wrong person for the wrong reasons. They married people who only lit up their bodies and hearts and forgot all about their minds and souls. To this day I still don’t think they know that orgasms and love ain’t hardly the same thing.

Paris sure don’t know how to pick no man. Every one she ever loved had something wrong with him. Nathan—that’s my grandson’s daddy—scores very high on this test. I don’t know why, but she seem to pick the ones that’s got major wiring problems. They should’ve been wearing giant signs that said: “Defective” or “Lazy” or “Retarded” or “Not Father Material” or “Yeah, I’m Good-looking but I Ain’t Worth Shit.” I guess she think her love can fill in their blank spots, ’cause for some strange reason she gravitate to these types. The kind of men that drain you, drag you down, take more from you than they give, and by the time they done used you up, got what they want, they bored, you on empty, and they ready to move on to greener pastures.