Part 6 — “The Day of the Vote”
It was already hot by the time Mabel Coates laced her shoes.
Her palms were damp. Her hip ached worse than usual. The kind of ache that whispered stay home, child, the world will spin without you.
But today, she could not stay home.
Today was the vote.
She stood in front of the mirror and pinned a button to her cardigan: ROOTS REMAIN.
Outside, Layla waited with Roo, the leash looped gently through her fingers. He wore a bright green bandana someone had embroidered with “Grove Street Guardian.”
“You ready?” Layla asked, bouncing on her toes.
“No,” Mabel said. “But we’re going anyway.”
Atlanta City Hall was all glass and echo.
The lobby smelled of lemon cleaner and nervous sweat. Security guards barely blinked when the dog padded in behind them. They’d been warned he was coming.
“Therapy dog?” one asked dryly.
“Neighborhood angel,” Mabel replied.
By ten o’clock, the room was packed.
There were garden hats and protest signs, handmade flyers and laminated photos. Elders and teenagers, construction workers and church deacons. It felt like a reunion, or maybe a resurrection.
Councilmember Ava Dorsey — tall, sharp-browed, with a red pen in hand — called the meeting to order.
“This chamber will now hear arguments for and against the protective designation of Lot #183B — formerly known as the Grove Street Garden.”
The room fell into a hush.
Sierra Lockwood stood first. She presented maps, timelines, community data. Her voice was steady, professional.
Then came Mabel.
She walked slowly to the podium, the handle of her trowel peeking from her tote bag like a relic. Roo followed behind, his cloudy eye scanning the room.
“I’m not here with a speech,” Mabel said, voice thick with emotion. “I’m here with proof of life.”
She held up a photo — black and white, edges frayed — of four children planting beans in the sun.
“I buried memories in that dirt,” she said. “My husband’s ashes. My hope. The laughter of children I watched grow up and move away. We don’t need another parking lot. We need places that remember us.”
She turned and looked directly at Councilmember Dorsey.
“If this dog can find his way back to the only home he’s known — blind in one eye, hungry and scared — then surely you can find it in your hearts to let us stay too.”
Silence.
Then a murmur.
Then a rising wave of clapping — not loud, not political, just human.
Layla approached next, holding Jayson’s mural in both hands.
“This is my brother’s last painting,” she said. “He died last year. He never got to see this place bloom again. But I think he knew it could. Please let it.”
Councilmember Dorsey tapped her pen. “Thank you, Ms. Jenkins.”
And then came the vote.
It took less than six minutes.
Five yays. Two nays. One abstention.
“Motion passed,” the clerk said.
A beat of silence — stunned, suspended.
Then the room erupted.
Mabel sat down hard on the bench, her hands covering her mouth. Tears spilled freely now, hot and grateful.
Layla hugged Roo so tightly his feet lifted from the tile. “We did it,” she whispered into his fur. “We really did it.”
That night, the garden shimmered.
Someone brought string lights. Someone else brought wine. Children ran between rows of herbs. A boombox played Al Green again — the same tape Marcus had played the day they began to hope.
Mabel sat beneath the mural, watching the sun dip low over the rooftops.
Layla knelt beside her, sipping sweet tea. Roo slept in the crook of her legs.
“What now?” Layla asked softly.
Mabel smiled.
“Now we plant for real.”
And as the lights blinked on and the music swelled, Mabel looked up at the night sky — wide, steady, stitched with stars.
She imagined Jayson watching.
And she whispered, “Come home, baby. Your roots are still here.”