“I remember when there were good days. Every day it seems like violence touches someone near us. Neighbors. Family. Friends. Even people that I don’t know. But each one takes a piece of me. Every. Day. I don’t know what to do.”

Me and Nehemiah huddle near the kitchen, neither of us saying anything, because it’s like she’s not really talking to us and we don’t want to interrupt.

“I go to work. I pay my bills. I make sure my kids are okay. I make sure they’re respectful. I don’t know what else to do. People want to say that mothers aren’t taking care of their kids, but I’m out here taking care of my kids. I’m trying, but I’m also scared. There’s so much violence out here. Around any corner. Any. Corner. Don’t matter where you live. I just don’t want anything to happen to my babies.”

“It’s okay, Moms.” Not knowing what else to do, I reach my arm around her to give her a hug.

I think if Moms had it her way, she’d write me a letter—no, a book—with all her advice assembled in one place. And she’d fill it with things like I had to know when to leave “one world” behind to enter a different one. Like what it means to be us, not just how but when. Or how when I was at home, I had to “talk like I had some sense.” All these rules to live by. Survive. Be . . . civilized. It sounds so complicated out loud, but in my heart I know what she means. She just wants to make life smoother for us and gets a little heated because she knows she can’t.

“It’s not . . . but it will be.” She pats me on my back and wipes her eyes as she comes down, regaining herself. “I’m just tired of crying.”

Moms finishes fixing the two of us turkey sandwiches. When we’re done eating, she adjusts the front burners of the stove to let us roast a few s’mores over them. Once we wash up from being a gooey mess, we drop onto the couch in front of the television, ready to battle out a season of Madden on the Wii. I had just grabbed the remote to power on the TV when Moms snatches it and switches the Wii off.

“Now that we’re all in a good place, you want to tell me what’s up?” Moms scoots us down the couch to make room for her. Me and Nehemiah squish into each other, leaving a couch cushion between us and her as if the space of a cushion was enough to save us if she blew up again.

“The school call you?” I ask.

“Thanks for reminding me to check my voice mail.”

Dang it. I kick myself for tipping my hand. Never give up information they don’t already have. That is a straight-up rookie mistake. “Then what?”

“What do you think all them kids were buzzing about? Was quick to run their mouths about what the principal had to say. Then that little so-and-so got in my face.”