Chapter 1 | Echoes of Daisy

The street was mostly quiet; only a few children were out, their laughter floating through the air as they ran around or headed to the corner store. Then, three black cars slowly rolled up the block on Reed Street. Eyes turned, children paused in surprise—it was the Knox children, siblings whose lives seemed as mysterious as their mother’s passing. The air in South Philadelphia was thick with the mingled scents of sweat and hustle, an aroma of hard work and survival seeping from every corner of the neighborhood.

Reed Street, where the Knox family home stood, had changed little in structure over the years. The row houses still lined up like weary soldiers, steadfast but weathered, their cracks spreading like scars from the weight of history. This was once a quiet street where neighbors knew each other well. Now, it was dotted with faces Tabby barely recognized. Houses, worn down and often in disrepair, opened doors to tenants rather than owners. Old neighbors had been priced out or passed on, their homes swallowed by landlords renting rooms for government vouchers.

As the Knox children emerged from the cars, they glanced around at their once-familiar neighborhood and at the fascinated faces of onlookers, who no doubt wondered about the large family descending from the vehicles and heading into the home Daisy Knox had owned all her life. In place of familiar faces were women raising children alone, men with various hustles—some respectable, others carried out in the shadows. The street held an uneasy mix of resilience and resignation, the faint hope of leaving mingling with the sharp edge of survival. In this transformed landscape, Daisy’s home had become a relic, filled with memories that lingered even after her passing.

Later that evening, after the funeral, Tabby Anderson sat in her mother’s dim living room, still in her funeral dress. Her husband sat beside her, a quiet, solid presence. She glanced down at the rounded tip of her pregnant belly, almost willing the life within her to chase away the image that haunted her: Daisy, surrounded by flames, her face marked by worry, almost pleading. The vision clung to her, wrapping around her thoughts like dusk slowly settling over the city.

Tabby watched as her husband, Mitchell, rose and began to pace across the room, one hand on his chin and the other in his pocket. In his soft, thoughtful tone, he murmured, “There’s one factor designed to keep you from the knowledge of self, which also keeps you from the knowledge of God.”

Only half-listening, Tabby let her mind wander. Mitchell was a deeply philosophical man, a pastor at Community Gospel Church—the same church she and her two older brothers had attended in Virginia. Mitchell had a serious expression, as if he were contemplating difficult questions, perhaps trying to imagine Daisy at the Gates of Heaven. But for Tabby, the conversation felt distant; her mind was fixed on her mother and the bittersweet memories tied to this house.

Daisy had become increasingly distant over the years. Even when she was physically present, it felt as though she wasn’t there. Yet she kept the house mostly the same. The furniture was newer, but the arrangement—two chairs and a couch near the record player—remained just as it had for as long as Tabby could remember. The coffee table held a Bible in the center, and the record player’s wooden top displayed albums by Billie Holiday, Etta James, Frankie Beverly, and Tina Turner, waiting to be played. Every piece of this place was laced with Daisy’s essence.

Tabby’s brothers were in the living room too, sitting in circles as they had grown up, each one absorbed in a conversation about their mother’s passing. Daisy was the center of their thoughts, even now, as they tried to unravel the mystery she had always been. The house on Reed Street in Philadelphia was the only home they had known as children, and, despite its hardships, Daisy had kept a roof over their heads. But in the last decade, she had felt like a ghost in her own home, lost even when she was there.

As children, they hadn’t understood their mother’s struggles; as adults, they pretended everything was fine, especially during their family debates. Daisy rarely joined them, except to shush them when they got too loud. Debating had been their main pastime, as Daisy had rarely taken them anywhere but the welfare office. They grew up challenging each other on books, music, and the Bible. If one read a book, the others would read it too, just for the debates, and Tabby had always tried to keep up with her brothers.

DeShaun, the oldest, stood near the radiator, still in his funeral suit, lost in thought. The other Knox boys—Andrew and Pauly—had already shed their jackets and ties, lounging in varying states of relaxation. Their wives sat nearby, watching over the children while the men discussed life, death, and inevitably, Daisy.

“You’re onto something, Mitchell,” DeShaun said, his voice steady with the authority of an assistant pastor. He’d always wanted to believe that God would save his mother, and he had always believed that one day she would come around. “I’ve heard of an A Factor—maybe it’s like the sin factor?”

“That’s one part of it,” Mitchell replied, smiling at Tabby and winking. She returned the smile, knowing he enjoyed impressing her with his insights.

“There’d have to be at least one other factor—for comparison,” Andrew chimed in.

“Exactly,” Mitchell said, snapping his fingers. “It’s called the B Factor.”

“The B Factor,” DeShaun repeated, nodding thoughtfully.

The room fell quiet for a moment, as each person seemed to ponder the idea. Tabby felt a subtle stirring of recognition in her heart. There was something about grace and revelation that struck her deeply. “B Factor,” she thought, her gaze dropping to her belly, where their first child was kicking beneath the black fabric. Just as she was about to respond, the doorbell broke the silence.

“That’s probably Reverend Wiley—he said he’d stop by,” Pauly murmured, placing his glass on the coffee table.

Minister Wiley Floyd, the pastor from Reed Street Baptist Church, had been a fixture of their childhood. Back then, Daisy had allowed them to attend his church on Wednesdays and Saturdays, especially for the big community meals hosted after the service.

DeShaun grinned. “The man never gives up.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Pauly replied, standing up to greet Reverend Wiley.