This is not my family. They look like them, but they are imposters. Everyone, except me, begins eating.

“Father, could you please passeth the collards?” Rone says.

“Quamy,” I whisper, “why you talking like dat?”

He cocks his head to the side awkwardly like a dog trying to understand human speech.

“Like what?” He smiles. Stares. Then starts eating.

“Father, brother, sister, mother,” Dre says, clanging his fork against his plastic cup. “I haveth a confession to make. Colt is not a real person. When I say I’m going to visit Colt, I’m really going to drink. It’s the only thing that brings me joy these days. I’m sorry for my lies. Forgiveth me.”

My mother smiles. Stares. “Oh, Dre, my baby boy. You are forgiven. And howeth do you feeleth?”

“Free, Mother.” He smiles. Stares.

“OK, OK,” I interrupt. “What the hell is going on here? What is wrong wit y’all? This is nuts. Why are y’all acting like this? I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone or something. Nothing here is right and I just wish someone would tell me what the hell is happening!”

I become enraged. My eyes glare. They ignore me.

“I have a confession also, Mother,” Rone says. “I’m still on the block, selling. I triedeth, Mother, I really did, but I couldn’t walk away. Can you ever forgiveth me?”

“Why, of course, Rone. His grace is here. His mercy too,” my mother says plastically. “Of course. And how do you feeleth?”

“Unburdened.”

“Now for me,” my father says. “I didn’t loseth the rent money last month. I gambled. Gambled all of it. Is it unforgivable, this sin?”

“Edward, no sin is unforgivable or unseen,” my mother says. “You are forgiven. And how do you feeleth?”

“Reborn.”

“Well, I guesseth that just leaves me. I musteth warn you in advance, my sin is truly awful. As you all knoweth, something terrible happened to our dear Echo when she was only eight years old. I wasn’t there with her at the hospital to console her after. Ms. Patty and Ms. Janine went instead. I told them I couldn’t take it. I said I had to come home and rest, but really, I went to the crack house and nearly smoked myself to death from the pain. They told me you cried for me. Looked for me. I wasn’t there for you and I’m sorry. Do you forgiveth me?”

The life leaves my eyes. Now it is me staring, glaring, at this demonic Jesus impersonator in front of me who must clearly be disowned for her sins.

I don’t blink. I stare at her, coldly. Penetratingly.

I speak—my voice a whisper.

“You left me to go smoke crack? What kind of mother would do that?”

Tears fall from my eyes, but I don’t make a sound.