The kitchen light was the warm yellow of old bulbs when Darius came back inside. Mom had already set the table—fried chicken still sizzling in the cast-iron skillet, collards steaming in a side pot, cornbread cooling on the rack. The air smelled like comfort, the kind that settled deep in your bones after a long day. She was at the stove, back to him, stirring the greens with a wooden spoon, humming low under her breath. It was an old hymn, "Amazing Grace," slowed down to a gentle sway.
"You eat yet?" she asked without turning around.
"Had some of Amara's pie."
Mom chuckled, soft. "That girl always did know how to bake. Her mama taught her good."
Darius pulled out a chair and sat. The wood creaked under him. "Yeah. She came by earlier."
Mom turned then, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist. Her eyes searched his face for a second—quick, practiced, like she'd been reading him since he was born. "She say anything worth hearing?"
He shrugged. "Said she waited."
Mom's expression softened, but there was something else there too—pride, maybe, or relief. She carried the skillet to the table and set it on a trivet. "She's a good one, Darius. Always was. Quiet about it, but steady."
He didn't answer right away. Just watched her plate the chicken—crispy skin, golden, still popping faintly. She added a heap of greens, a wedge of cornbread, then slid the plate in front of him.
"Eat," she said. "You're too skinny."
He picked up the fork. "I'm fine, Ma."
"You're not." She sat across from him with her own plate, smaller portion. "You came home thinner than when you left. And that look in your eyes… it's the same one your daddy had when he got back from the Gulf."
Darius cut into the chicken. The crust cracked under the fork. "I ain't like Dad."
"You're more like him than you want to admit." She took a sip of iced tea, ice clinking against the glass. "He carried things the same way. Didn't talk about them. Just let them sit until they got too heavy."
He chewed slowly. The meat was hot, salty, perfect. "He wrote about it. In the journal."
Mom's hand paused halfway to her mouth. "You read some?"
"A couple pages."
She set the fork down. "And?"
He stared at his plate. "He was scared. Didn't want me to know."
She nodded, slow. "He never wanted you to carry his weight. Thought if he kept it quiet, you'd grow up lighter."
"Didn't work."
"No," she said quietly. "It didn't."
They ate in silence for a while. The ceiling fan spun overhead, stirring the warm air. Outside, the cicadas had quieted some, replaced by the occasional chirp of crickets starting their night shift.
Mom spoke again after a few bites. "You thinking about what comes next?"
He shrugged. "Haven't got that far."
"You've got time. But you can't just sit on that porch forever, baby."
"I know."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Your daddy left things unfinished. Not just the war stories. There's a box upstairs—letters, papers, some things about the family he never talked about. I kept it for you. Figured when you were ready…"
He looked up. "Ready for what?"
"To know where you come from. All of it. Not just the parts that hurt."
Darius set his fork down. "I know where I come from, Ma. Right here. This house. This town. You."
Her eyes glistened, but she blinked it away. "And him. And whatever he carried that he didn't pass on. You don't have to read it tonight. Or tomorrow. But it's there when you want it."
He nodded once. Tight.
She reached across the table, laid her hand over his. Her palm was warm, rough from years of work. "You don't have to be alone with it, Darius. That's what I'm saying. You got people here who'll sit with you in the dark parts. Me. Amara. Maybe even that quiet girl with the drawings—Isolde. She looks like she knows dark."
He didn't pull away this time. Just let her hand stay there, grounding.
"I ain't good at talking, Ma."
"I know. But you're good at listening. Start there."
He turned his hand over, squeezed hers once. Brief. Then let go.
They finished dinner like that—quiet forks on plates, the hum of the fridge, the soft tick of the clock on the wall. When the plates were cleared, Mom started washing up. Darius dried. Same routine they'd had since he was old enough to reach the counter.
Afterward, she kissed his cheek, smelling like dish soap and vanilla. "Get some rest, baby. Tomorrow's another day."
"Yeah."
She headed to her room. He climbed the stairs slow, shoulder aching with every step.
In his room, the box still sat on the dresser, lid closed. He stared at it for a long minute.
Then he turned off the light and lay on the bed, boots off this time, socks peeled away. The sheets were cool against his skin.
He stared at the ceiling, at the fist-shaped water stain.
The house settled around him—creaks, sighs, the faint hum of the fridge downstairs.
Outside, a cricket chirped once, close to the window.
Darius closed his eyes.
The ache in his chest was still there—sharper than the one in his shoulder—but for the first time since he'd come home, it felt like something he might be able to name.
Not yet.
But maybe soon.