She did not hug him.
"You got nerve bringing that nickname to my door after three years."
Bradley looked down.
"I know."
Dorothy let the silence hurt him for several seconds. Then she stepped aside.
"Come in before the chicken gets cold."
Bradley's eyes filled.
"Yes, ma'am."
Dinner lasted almost three hours.
For the first twenty minutes, Jonathan Bradley barely spoke unless someone asked him a direct question. He sat across from Marcus, his hands wrapped around a glass of water, looking at family photographs on the wall as though he had entered a house preserved from a life he had once belonged to. Dorothy served him food without ceremony and refused to rescue him from the discomfort. Marcus watched him just as openly.
The mayor on television had always seemed polished. He spoke in measured sentences, wore dark suits, and appeared at ribbon cuttings beside people who stood straighter when he approached. The man at Dorothy's table kept staring at Angela's empty chair and losing his place in conversation. David broke the silence first.
"You brought albums."
Bradley nodded.
"I found them at the house."
Dorothy gave him a look. "Your house or your mother's?"
"Mom D, please."
"I'm asking because men have a way of saying 'the house' when some woman has been keeping the place alive for forty years."
Marcus smiled. Bradley almost did.
"My mother's."
"Better."
He opened the first album. Young Angela appeared on the first page wearing an oversized Howard University sweatshirt and holding a megaphone at what looked like a student rally. Marcus leaned forward.
"Mom did protests?"
David laughed. "Your mother protested everything."
"Not everything," Dorothy said.
"She protested the cafeteria changing the biscuit recipe."
"That was justified."
Bradley turned the page. Angela at sixteen in a traditional African-print dress stood outside a school building, chin lifted, arms crossed, surrounded by three other girls wearing similarly bright clothing. Marcus pointed.
"What's that?"
Bradley became quieter.
"Your mother's first suspension."
Marcus looked up.
"She got suspended?"
"Eighth grade."
Dorothy shook her head. "One day, technically. The principal told her the dress was distracting."
"Why?"
"Because he was a fool," Dorothy said.
David coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Bradley continued. "Angela wore it again the next day."
"After being suspended?"
"Yes."
"Didn't she get in more trouble?"
"She brought the dress-code policy with her. It said clothing couldn't be unsafe, obscene, or interfere with instruction. Nothing about African fabric. She also brought three students whose parents agreed to come to the office."