Though I’m nervous about reintroducing my daughters to the world—to new people, unfamiliar eyes, and potential harm I can’t control—I trust Kerry. Because I trust her, I let myself be carefree and enjoy this moment.

Our first stop is the ice cream shop, a tiny but mighty piece of history nestled in the heart of downtown. From the outside, it just looks like an old historic building with a painted mural of kids licking dripping cones. Stepping inside is like stepping back in time.

The warm and sweet scent of freshly baked waffle cones greets us first. Then, I notice an old jukebox humming in the corner, playing an old Sam Cooke record. Then, I observe the walls alive with history, including a faded “Est. 1950” stamped beneath the shop’s name. Photos line the shop; some are yellowed with time, and some are sharp and new. They capture decades of families, children with messy faces, Black joy, history, and excellence at its finest.

There are snapshots of sit-ins, protesters gathered right outside these very doors, and even civil rights leaders like John Lewis and Robert Abernathy laughing over double scoops.

“This place is… special,” I say aloud, mostly to myself.

Kerry watches me, a soft smile playing at her lips. “Yeah,” she says, eyes flickering over the pictures, soaking in the history like she’s done a hundred times before. “It is. Coming to Greer from Beverly Mills as a kid was always a treat. There are places like this everywhere, still intact, still filled with beauty and pride. There’s no place like Greer.”

Syd and Ari are just as amazed. They press their little hands against the glass display and point at every colorful swirl of ice cream like they’re ready to order the entire menu.

Before they can get too carried away, Kerry grins then turns toward the counter to announce, “Mrs. Frazier, my so-called culinary genius of a boyfriend over here seems to believe he makes the best homemade ice cream in the world. And while I deeply respect his talent,” She pauses, throwing me a playful side-eye. “I must respectfully disagree. So, would you do me the honor of serving him and his two adorable sous-chefs a scoop of the greatest ice cream known to man?”

A wave of laughter and aww’s ripple through the shop.

The ice cream shop owner, Mrs. Frazier, grins. “Oh, Kerry, I love when out-of-towners step in, all high and mighty, only to have their lives forever changed by a single scoop of my magic.”

I scoff, crossing my arms. “No offense, Mrs. Frazier, but I highly doubt there’s a sundae on this planet that could shake my confidence.”

She just laughs as if I’m some teenager talking trash. “Famous last words, Chef Grimes.”

I roll my eyes between chuckles. There’s no way in hell anyone’s ice cream is better than mine.