Tasheena Armstrong adjusted her sunglasses as the cab curved down the two-lane road leading into Newberry. The town looked both familiar and foreign. The old signs were still there: Mr. Boone’s Hardware, Miss Georgia’s Sweet Rolls, and the red-brick courthouse in the square. But now, a modern coffee shop with outdoor seating had popped up across from the old movie theater. Sleek condos peeked from behind weeping willows. Newberry had changed.
She leaned slightly out the open window, letting the soft breeze hit her face. After nearly twelve years in Brooklyn, she was finally back where it all started. It wasn’t an easy decision, leaving her life in the city—the spotlight, her high-profile news career, and late-night wine chats with her tribe of girlfriends. But her last visit had shifted something. Seeing her niece Asia rocking gently on the porch swing, her eyes locked on a spinning toy, had brought Tasheena face-to-face with a long-buried dream.
She wanted more than just headlines. She wanted purpose.
—
Her parents’ home on Lincoln Street stood proudly, a brick bungalow with fresh blue shutters and a wide porch that had seen generations of laughter. Brenda Armstrong was on the steps with a dish towel over one shoulder and a radiant smile.
“Tasheena Michelle Armstrong! You better get out that car before I come get you!”
Tasheena grinned and hopped out, wrapping her arms around her mother.
Douglas Armstrong came around the side of the house, holding a pair of gardening gloves and wiping his brow. “Look what the wind blew back in.”
“Hey Daddy,” she said, sinking into his hug.
Inside, the house smelled like home: lemon polish, sweet potato pie, and a hint of lavender. Keon was in the living room with Asia, gently rubbing her back as she sat cross-legged on the floor with her headphones on. Asia didn’t look up, but when Tasheena crouched down and whispered, “Hey sweet girl,” the corners of her lips turned up.
That was all she needed.
Desmond was leaning on the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed. His wife Roniece sat at the breakfast nook scrolling on her phone.
“Long time, sis,” Desmond said with a nod.
“Too long,” Tasheena replied.
He didn’t respond.
—
Later that evening, Tasheena met up with Lesa Parker at Bean’s Café, a newly renovated spot that served oat milk lattes and sweet potato muffins.
“Girl, look at you!” Lesa hugged her tight. “You still walk like you late for a breaking news segment!”
They laughed and slid into the corner booth.
“So what’s the real story?” Lesa asked. “You left New York? For good?”
Tasheena stirred her coffee. “Yeah. I miss home. And honestly, I want to start my own thing. I’ve been working on designs for communication tools—for kids like Asia. I want to build a day center for nonverbal autistic children. Give parents a safe place to leave their kids while they work. Give the kids what they need to thrive.”
Lesa’s eyes welled. “You always had a big heart, girl. That’s beautiful.”
—
Saturday brought the Armstrong family fish fry. The yard filled with laughter, folding chairs, and the aroma of hush puppies and fried catfish. Cousins from Columbia and Greenville came through. Music played from a Bluetooth speaker near the grill.
Tasheena played with Asia under the magnolia tree, holding up flashcards she’d made by hand.
“You know this one?”
Asia pressed a button on a device. “Water,” it said in a robotic voice. Tasheena clapped. “That’s right! Look at you, genius girl.”
Nearby, Desmond watched. Later, as they both grabbed sodas from the cooler, he turned.
“You think that little gadget gonna change everything?” he asked.
Tasheena stiffened. “It’s a start. Asia deserves options. Other kids too.”
Desmond shrugged. “We been fine here. You just got here and think you can fix everything?”
“I’m not trying to fix everything,” she said evenly. “Just help.”
He opened his soda. “Just don’t act like you better than us now that you’re back.”
She turned and walked away.
—
Sunday morning, Tasheena met with a real estate agent, Maria, to tour an old schoolhouse on Walker Street. The red brick building had vines creeping up the side, but the bones were solid.
“This used to be Miss Henrietta Mayfield’s place,” Maria said. “She taught half this town before she passed. No heirs. City owns it now. Could be perfect for your center.”
As Tasheena walked the dusty halls, she imagined therapy rooms, sensory play areas, art spaces. Her vision came alive.
That evening, a man in a tailored suit showed up at the Armstrong home.
“Name’s Calvin Reed. County development office. Heard you’re looking into the Mayfield building.”
Tasheena nodded. “That’s right.”
“Just a word of caution,” he said. “That place is tied up in some history. Miss Mayfield was rumored to have left it to one of her students, but the will vanished. People say there’s a hidden deed. Some folks might not want you digging.”
Tasheena raised a brow. “Why would anyone hide a will?”
He stepped back. “Because legacy ain’t always good business.”
—
Tasheena didn’t back down. She spent the next week researching Miss Mayfield’s past, even visiting the old town archive. She found a photo of Mayfield with a group of children, one of whom looked strikingly like Desmond.
That night, she knocked on his door.
“Can we talk?”
He let her in, reluctantly.
She held up the photo. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in her last class?”
He sighed. “Because I didn’t want to get involved. She told me once, near the end, she was leaving the schoolhouse to someone who understood the kids she taught. Said she’d already written it down. Then she died, and nobody ever saw a will.”
“You think someone hid it?”
He nodded. “Miss Mayfield was old-school but she had heart. She wouldn’t have wanted it to sit empty.”
—
Tasheena launched “Coloring Outside the Lines,” a monthly arts event for autistic kids and their families. The first session drew ten families. Asia painted with her hands, laughing for the first time in days.
Keon hugged Tasheena afterward. “You don’t even know what you just did. These parents feel seen.”
Even Roniece stayed behind to help clean.
Desmond showed up late, carrying an old ledger.
“Found this in the attic,” he said. “Used to belong to Miss Mayfield. Thought you should have it.”
Tasheena opened it and gasped. Inside was a folded piece of paper—a deed, signed and dated.
“Looks like Miss Mayfield left us more than just lessons,” she whispered.
—
The next morning, Tasheena filed for a nonprofit license. The dream was no longer a whisper. It was loud, proud, and rooted in home.
She walked out of the courthouse, sun high, heart full, and a group text from her Brooklyn crew buzzing on her phone.
She smiled and typed back, “Newberry’s never gonna be the same.”
To be continued…
Thee Juju Aura 