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the earring pierced in the oldest boy’s ear. I couldn’t tell how old they were because of the hardened looks in their eyes. I felt a sense of kinship akin to how slaves had to feel after Emancipation when they reconnected with long-lost relatives. Inside I was elated, but that sense of elation was soured quickly.
    â€œWho are you?” The oldest demanded with the same brash confidence that Mayhem possessed when he was a child. He was bowlegged and stood with his legs arched back the same way Mayhem used to do.
    â€œI’m your Auntie Z.”
    â€œMy daddy ain’t never tell us nothin’ about-’chu.” This little defiant man-child even had his mouth twisted up the way my brother used to do, too.
    I suppressed a grin. “Well, he told me about y’all.”
    I recalled my first meeting with Mayhem after fifteen years. He’d referred to his sons as his “little thuglets” and I could see why. The oldest one already had what I presumed was a battle scar on the right side of his face. An inch higher and it would have put out his eye. The two-inch keloid glared against his fair complexion. The way he acted though, this little man wore this scar as a badge of honor.
    That’s when I realized I didn’t know any of their names. “What are your names?”
    â€œHow you s’posed to be somebody auntie and you don’t even know our name,” the oldest bleated in my face.
    â€œWell, I am your auntie,” I said firmly. “That’s a good question.” I showed Tank’s note to Rena.
    Rena, who had receded into the background after she let me in, spoke up. “Their names are Milan, Koran, and Tehran. Milan is ten, Koran is nine, and Tehran is seven.”
    â€œOkay, Milan, Koran, and Tehran, I’m your Auntie Z. You’re coming with me.” To break the awkwardness, I gave them each a hurried hug, which none of them responded to, but what did I expect? I was a stranger to them. We were tied by blood, yet, at the same time, we were separated by years and distance.
    A faint sadness swept over me. How many more families had been separated because of this madness–gangs, prison, drugs? As I huddled the still disgruntled boys into my car, with their backpacks, I wondered where I could take them. Then I had a thought: why not at least try Shirley, despite my earlier reservations?
    But almost as soon as I thought it, I realized Shirley really was out of the question. Besides, she had protective custody of all four of Chica’s girls, and having prepubescent, mannish boys in the same age group probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Plus, she had restrictions with her foster care license. Girls and boys couldn’t sleep in the same room and her rooms were all full.
    That’s when I thought of Venita. At first, I thought that was a crazy idea. How could I even consider my biological mother? Hey, she didn’t even finish raising us. But then I thought about it. After all, she was their grandmother. This could be her redemption. Perhaps this would give her a second shot at being a mother. She sure messed up with us.
    And, as much as I hated to admit it since I didn’t want to forgive her yet, she was different now–in a good way. Maybe she could give her grandchildren what she wasn’t able to give us: a suitable, stable home. She was now clean and sober. She had slowly rebuilt her life since her release a year ago. Against all odds of recidivism, prison had rehabilitated her, or so it would seem.
    Why shouldn’t she take her own grandchildren? But would she want to take them now that she was free and living her own life?

Chapter Eight
    I pulled over to a curb, and stepped out the car so I could call Venita and talk in private. I didn’t want to scare the boys, although they didn’t look like you could frighten them easily. I wondered if they knew their lives were in danger.
    My mother answered on the first