Image: Tolu Bamwo c/o Nappy.co
Nia’s father was standing next to the stove. He was bent over his laptop, squinting at the screen, his lips tucked around an ink pen. Now and again he plucked the pen from his mouth to jot something on a notepad. The kettle whistled. He turned it off, poured water into a mug, and stirred in Folgers.
To Nia, he looked like he was in a play kitchen. Like the one her parents had put into storage along with her mother’s piano (which had once belonged to Nia’s great-grandmother), and the dresser her father had had since he was Nia’s age. None of it had come with them to the new apartment because there wasn’t enough room.
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