At least, they used to be. Mama would be up by seven cooking breakfast. Pancakes and sausages. As soon as the meal was done, she’d assign Kayla, Keith and me chores, and we couldn’t go out and play or do anything until the house sparkled. We griped, but once the music was blasting and we were singing and dancing, we had that house clean in no time. My rendition of Whitney Houston’s “Dance With Somebody” into a dust mop microphone? Classic.

Saturday morning in my mother’s house is much different now. It’s not the starter home my parents purchased to be close to Emory while Daddy was in law school. The Sterns don’t live across the street, subdued until sunset on the weekends, observing Shabbat.

Daddy’s gone, God rest his soul.

Kayla’s married with her husband and five kids, God bless her soul.

Keith is a father and husband, too. Hmm-hmm.

When I come home, it’s just Mama and me. A sweet woman named Esmerelda hums as she cleans the house, top to bottom. Our family home is now at an elite Buckhead address, tucked among some of Atlanta’s most expensive properties. It’s eleven o’clock and Mama still hasn’t stirred.

In the breakfast nook, I sip the herbal tea the homeopath recommended to help with hormonal balance and to possibly alleviate some of the weight gain. I squint against the bright sunlight, angling my phone to eliminate the glare. A text message from Piers.

Piers: Got a second?

I don’t bother to reply but dial him right away.

“Talk to me,” I say, taking a bite of the cantaloupe I sliced for breakfast.

“Good morning,” Piers says. “Hope I’m not disturbing time with your family.”

I glance around the empty room and listen to Esmerelda’s vacuum running in the living room. “You’re fine. Tell me what you got.”

“It’s interesting doing opposition research for a candidate who hasn’t hired us yet on a man who hasn’t even declared that he’s running against our not-client.”

“Ah. But I don’t just read the tea leaves,” I say, laughing and leaning back in my seat. “I grow them. Some of us wait for the future to unfold, and others bend it to our will. Knowing our probable opposition’s dirt at this stage may prove useful in securing the position itself. So Burton Colson. Dirt in the streets? Dirt in the sheets? What ya got?”

“Definitely in the sheets.”

“Balance sheets or bedsheets?”

“Both.”

“Send me a full report, including pics if you have them. And dirt in the streets? What’d you find?”

“Some business practices that, while not illegal, wouldn’t make him look good to certain key voting demographics.”

I rub my hands together, cantaloupe abandoned in favor of dirt. “Ooooh, my favorite. What is it?”