PART 1: THE SECRET INSIDE MAMA’S FLOUR TIN

My mother kept her pantry organized with almost obsessive precision. Canned vegetables were sorted by expiration date, sugar stayed in the same glass jar she had owned for decades, and even the spices were arranged alphabetically because Beverly Parrish believed everything had its proper place.

But there was one thing in that pantry nobody was ever allowed to touch: an old white enamel flour tin decorated with a faded blue pattern. It always sat on the highest shelf, and although I had seen it countless times growing up, Mama treated it differently from everything else she owned.

When I was twelve, I once reached for the tin because I wanted to make biscuits and couldn’t find enough flour. Mama immediately slapped my hand away, startling me so badly that I burst into tears.

Later, she made me cocoa and sat beside me at the kitchen table, gently stroking my hair while apologizing. She never explained what was inside the tin, though, and after returning it to the highest shelf, she made it clear that I should never touch it again.

Mama was like that whenever something hurt too much to discuss. She rarely confronted painful subjects directly, preferring to quietly close the door until everyone around her learned not to ask what was behind it.