Still Mine

Still Mine is a soul-deep, fiction-infused memoir about Delores, a neurodivergent Black girl growing up in the 1950s Midwest, misjudged at home, misdiagnosed in school, and misunderstood for most of her life. 

It's not just a story of survival. It's a story of revelation. Based on Esther Mae Easter's own life journey, this novel invites readers into the silence, the ridicule, the fire, and the rising that followed.

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Sunday on the River

The baby was asleep. The kind of sleep that wraps the body like warm syrup—thick, heavy, boneless. Nine-month-old Delores Jean Franklin lay curled on her side in the back seat of her father's green Plymouth sedan, one hand open near her mouth, the other tangled in the hem of the soft, blue blanket tucked beneath her chin. She barely stirred as the muffled sound of voices drifted in through the cracked window. It was Sunday.

The town was still. It always was on Sundays. A hot sun smeared light over everything: the gravel underfoot, the wide, slow belly of the Mississippi River, the rusted guardrail down by the dock. A breeze swept through the cottonwood trees along the shore, stirring the branches just enough to make them whisper.

Horace Franklin leaned against a telephone pole near the parking lot, the brim of his fedora pushed back on his head. He was laughing, one foot cocked up behind him on the wood. Sweat traced a shine along his temple. A cigarette burned low in his fingers, the smoke curling around his knuckles like it knew the way.

"She doesn't trust me with 'em," he said to the man beside him—some coworker from the foundry whose name he always forgot. "Told me, 'You better not lose my baby.' Like I'm out here gamblin' with my own blood."

The other man chuckled, wiping his neck with a folded rag. "She still givin' you hell?"

Horace nodded. "Every day that ends in Y."

They both laughed, the kind of low, masculine laughter that came from shared misery and the need to pretend it didn't bother them.

The parking lot sat about thirty feet from the river, separated by a patch of flattened grass and a shallow drop toward the bank. It wasn't an official dock, just the edge of things—where boys fished, and teenagers drank, and tired men came to think too loud in their own heads.

Inside the car, Lawrence sat in the front seat, too big to be told to stay out, too young to understand why he should. He was six, barefoot, legs sticking to the vinyl, swinging them back and forth like windshield wipers. He had a Tootsie Pop in his mouth, red and already soft. He liked pretending to drive. His hands rested on the steering wheel. He made little engine sounds with his throat.

From the outside, the car looked peaceful. A boy is playing pretend. A baby dreaming. Just a parked car on a summer afternoon.

Delores stirred once, briefly. Her eyes fluttered open—dark, wide—and then closed again. The sun through the back window made her hair glow. Her breaths were slow and even. The blanket rose and fell.

Horace flicked the cigarette into the grass and turned to check on them. He squinted through the windshield. "Lawrence!" he called. "You better not be messin' with nothin' in there!"

Lawrence froze for half a second, then called back, mouth still full of candy, "I'm not!"

Horace grunted, satisfied. "Good. You touch that gear stick, and I'll tan your hide."

Lawrence rolled his eyes and went back to pretending. His foot tapped against the floorboard. He reached down, ran his fingers over the shiny chrome handle next to the seat. It clicked softly under his hand. He didn't think much of it.

Across the street, someone slammed a screen door. A dog barked once. A bird cried overhead. The Mississippi River lapped quietly against the shore, steady and slow, like it had all the time in the world.

Inside the car, Delores shifted again. Her hand clenched once around the blanket, then let go.

The emergency brake was down.