“Mama, George has never hit Shanice. She’s been lying about a lot of things lately. She’s just being dramatic.”

“Oh, really. What about her hair? How dramatic is that?”

“The doctor said some kids do this.”

“Have you at least confronted George?”

“Of course I have. Mama, look. George is a good man. He loves Shanice like she was his own daughter. He’s done everything to get in her good graces, but she has never really cared for him, so this is just another desperation move on her part to get him out of the house once and for all.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Look. Why don’t you send her on home?”

I took a few more puffs off my inhaler, then slammed it down on the counter. I changed ears. “I’ll tell you something. A home is where a child is supposed to feel safe, protected.”

“I know this, Mama, and she should . . .”

“Apparently, your daughter don’t feel this way.”

“Are you about finished?”

“No. I’m just getting started. I’ll say this. You better watch that motherfucker like a hawk, ’cause he doing more than hitting her. You may be blind, but I ain’t. And I’ll send her home when I’m good and damn ready!” And I hung up.

My granddaughter ain’t no actress, and them tears was real. Since she run track and had a big meet coming up, I sent her home, but promised her I would look into this. I told her to dial 911 the next time he so much as bump into her. I just been patting my feet, trying to figure out what to do about this mess. Cecil told me to mind my own business. I told Cecil to kiss my black ass. This chile got my blood in her veins.

The more I think about it, I’m beginning to wonder if we ain’t one of them dysfunctional families I’ve seen on TV. A whole lotta weird shit been going on in the Price family for years. But, then again, I know some folks got some stuff that can top ours. Hell, look at the Kennedys. Maybe everybody is dysfunctional and God put us all in this mess so we can learn how to function. To test us. See what we can tolerate. I don’t know, but we don’t seem to be doing such a hot job of it. I guess we need to work harder at getting rid of that d-y-s part. I just wish I had a clue where to start.

I won’t lie: none of my kids turned out the way I hoped they would, but I’m still proud to be their mother. I did the best I could with what I had. Cecil worked two jobs back in those days, which meant I had to do everything: like raise ’em. I tried to teach ’em the difference between right and wrong, good and bad, being honest, having good manners, and what I knew about dignity, pride, and respect. What I left out they shoulda learned in Sunday school. Common sense is something you can’t teach, which is why there’s some things kids should blame their parents for and some shit they just have to take responsibility for on their own.