I pound on the front porch door of my biological mother’s saggy-roofed house. For as long as I can remember, she’s lived in this hellhole, rotting floors and all. We were extracted from her care when I was in first grade. Misty was still in diapers. And ironically enough, when shit went down seven years ago, Mona was the only one there for me. She came to my trial and visited me in prison. It’s the only reason I’m standing here, pounding on her door, or giving her the time of day. “Royal? That you?” The creak of her front door is followed by the stench of cat piss and dirty litter boxes. “Hey, baby, come on in.” I show myself in. Mona’s in a yellow mu mu with Hawaiian flowers. She waddles to the living room and plops down, all five hundred pounds of her, and lifts her remote to pause her show. “Ain’t seen you in a good while, Son,” she says. Mona grins with a mouthful of pearly whites. Those are new. Must’ve finally gotten those dentures. I hate when she calls me Son.
