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79.

We were having a chat with Tyler Perry, the actor-writer-director. He’d sent a note to Meg before

the wedding, out of the blue, telling her that she wasn’t alone, that he saw what was happening.

Now, FaceTiming with him, Meg and I were trying to put on a brave face, but we were both a

mess.

Tyler saw. He asked what was up.

We gave him the highlights, the loss of security, the borders closing. Nowhere to turn.

Whoa. OK, that’s a lot. But…just breathe. Breathe.

That was the problem. We couldn’t breathe.

Look…take my house.

What?

My house in Los Angeles. It’s gated, it’s secure—you’ll be safe there. I’ll keep you safe.

He was traveling, he explained, working on a project, so the house was empty, waiting for us.

It was too much. Too generous.

But we accepted. Eagerly.

I asked why he was doing this.

My mother.

Your…?

My mother loved your mother.

I was caught completely by surprise. He said: After your mother visited Harlem, that was it.

She could do no wrong in Maxine Perry’s book.

He went on to say that his mother had died ten years earlier, and he was still grieving.

I wanted to tell him it gets easier.

I didn’t.