“Hi, Momma,” I greet, answering the phone as I walk into my apartment.

“Hi, Sweetpea,” Momma returns. “How are my two favorite people in New York City doing?”

“Great,” I return, positioning the phone between my ear and shoulder as I take my son out of his stroller. “How’s the family?”

“Good,” Mom sighs. “The typical happenings in Georgia as always, you know.”

I laugh. “That’s why I left,” I comment.

“You and I know that that wasn’t the only reason,” Mom corrects sarcastically.

“Well, one of them,” I say, pushing the stroller to the side. “Is Papa still driving you crazy?”

“Yes,” she admits with a giggle. “I worry when the bank pushes for his retirement. He’ll fight it, so will they, and when they win, he’ll drive me even more bonkers.”

“I heard that,” my father says in the background.

“I said it loud enough for you to hear it,” Momma teases.

I head into the kitchen to start making dinner.

“Is that Ivy?” Papa checks.

“Sure is,” Momma confirms.

“Tell her I said hey and…” Papa’s voice gets cut off completely, but I know that I didn’t lose the signal, so that can only mean that Momma covered the receiver with her hand.

“Momma?” I call, knowing that she and dad can go back and forth with their playful banter for hours, forgetting that I’m on the phone. “Momma?” I repeat, grabbing a few items from the refrigerator. “Momma?” I pause and check my phone, noticing that we didn’t get disconnected. “Momma,” I say a little louder this time.

“Yes, Sweetpea,” Momma answers. “I’m here. Your father and I….”

“I know,” I giggle. “It’s your thing.”

“What is?” Momma checks.

“Nevermind,” I say, brushing it off.

My parents love each other—there’s no doubt about that. They bicker, in a playful way, like a couple who’s been married for over eighty years.

Momma and Papa are a quarter of the married couples in Blackburn who still actually and genuinely love each other. The majority of people who are married in small towns, especially our small town, tolerate each other. They’ll smile and be kind to each other’s faces, but will incessantly complain to everyone else about their spouse. Actually, that’s how practically everyone is in my hometown. If they have an issue with someone, they talk to everyone but that person. So much drama wouldn’t exist if they just learned to speak to each other better.

To outsiders, Blackburn is a beautiful place to visit and get away from their daily lives. To the locals, it’s as if you’re stuck in time. No one believes in divorce, most people are intensely religious, and the town loves to gossip about anyone who lives in it and those who visit. The older folks don’t like the technology the younger generations are using and the younger generations don’t like how the older, white folks insist on using all of their racial slurs when almost half of the town is no longer Caucasian.

My family and I are one of the families who are constantly talked about behind our backs. We’re one-fourth Cherokee and in the summer the town’s folk remind us, and anyone else who isn’t pure breed white, that we aren’t like them by how they treat us.

“How’s business?” Momma inquires.

“Good,” I return, turning to make sure my son hasn’t gotten into something he shouldn’t. “Busy, but good as always. We’ve got more clients using the app software which makes it easier for the team to get stuff approved more quickly.”

“Good,” Momma hums. “Good.”

“What’s up?” I ask, tossing some spaghetti into a pot.

“What do you mean?” Momma returns with her voice going up slightly.

“Momma,” I huff. “I know something’s up…what is it?”

“Umm…” Momma says, pausing as if she’s searching for the right words.

My throat tightens. “Momma?” I inquire nervously. “Is…is Papa okay?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” she confirms quickly.

“Grady?” I inspect.

“Your brother’s fine too,” she returns.

“What about Nana or Pops?” I search.

“They’re okay too,” Momma says with a nervous voice.

“Momma, you’re kind of starting to freak me out,” I inform, grabbing some sauce from the refrigerator.

There’s a little bit of a pause before she asks, “Are you sitting down?”

“Dada,” my son says in the background.

I look up and find him pointing at a picture of his father.

“Hi, Dada,” he adds with a wave as if the picture will wave back. He leans forward and tries to kiss it.

“Should I be?” I inquire nervously, stirring the pot.

“Umm…yes,” Momma affirms.

I turn down the temperature for the noodles and pull out my kitchen chair. “Okay,” I say, hoping she’ll start explaining.

“I’m not quite sure how to tell you this,” Momma begins.

“Just tell me,” I request anxiously. “I’m sure that’ll be best for both of us.”

“Okay…well….Julianna…she’s….she’s sick,” Momma shares.

“Sick?” I question.

Momma never mentions people outside of our family being ill, so her news has me concerned.

“Yes, Sweetpea,” Mom confirms. “She’s….very sick.”

I remain silent, unsure of what to say or what to make out of what she’s telling me.

“It was sudden from what we know,” Momma continues. “She’s in the hospital.”

“Did she have a fall or something?” I question.

“No,” Momma replies. “She’s…it was sudden.”

“You said that already,” I remind. “You need to give me more than that.”

“Henry…I’m not sure how he’s handling it,” Momma adds. “He won’t really talk to anyone, but from what his mother said, Julianna might not last long.”

“What do you mean, Momma?” I inquire, feeling a myriad of emotions flurrying through my body at the mention of Henry’s name.

“Julianna didn’t know she was sick…not until she went in to get tested for something,” Momma explains.

“Tested for what?” I ask.

“Initially, from what Henry’s mother said, she was trying to figure out why she couldn’t conceive,” Momma shares with a shaky tone.

My heart drops to the floor at the thought of Henry, my Henry, and her trying to have children. I guess he wasn’t my Henry after all if they were trying. I guess he really did make his choice, but I did too.

“Henry’s Momma said that Julianna seemed fine until the doctors told her she had ovarian cancer,” Momma explains. “They went in to operate, but found out that it was further along than the test result had indicated.”

“Which means?” I pry.

“Which means….” Momma says, pausing as she tries to collect herself. “Julianna is dying.”

My head shakes, wishing I have never heard her last three words. Despite the fact that Julianna and I haven’t been friends, not since my Henry became her Henry, I don’t wish that fate on anyone. My heart goes out to her and her parents, knowing that Julianna is their only child, and to Henry who’s having to handle all of this. I know that he is strong, but I’m not sure how strong.

A single tear falls down my right cheek. I tell myself that that tear is for Julianna, but my heart knows that I’m lying. Another tear slips past, and as they continue to fall, I know that they’re selfish tears, falling for the man I’ve never stopped loving, wondering if this could be our chance to finally be together rather than for him and his soon-to-be loss.

“I…I got to go, Momma,” I say weakly.

“You okay, Sweetpea?” Momma asks.

“Mm-hm,” I lie. I hang up the phone, not bothering to say goodbye because I don’t want my mother to hear me cry. She’ll know the truth behind my tears and would only encourage me that much more to come home.

Is it wrong to cry for the one you love when you’re hoping for another chance instead of weeping for him and the wife whom he’s about to lose? I can’t blame Julianna for taking Henry away from me. He made his choice and I made mine.

Can we go back to the way things used to be? With everything that has happened, I doubt it, but I still have hope that we just might able to fix it this time.