Reader Note: Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man is ranked 19th on the Top 100 novels list. The novel follows an unnamed Black protagonist as he navigates a world that refuses to truly see him, forcing him into a journey of self-discovery and survival. Set against the backdrop of mid-20th-century America, it exposes the ways in which marginalized individuals are rendered invisible — both literally and metaphorically — by the very systems that claim to define them.
This story, inspired by Invisible Man, offers a glimpse into the life of Mary, a minor but significant character from the novel, and reimagines her resilience and quiet strength in the face of struggle. Because, of course, there are invisible women, too. I used ChatGPT and Grammarly for workshopping, editing, and photos.
The onions and garlic sizzled in the pan, filling the small Harlem apartment. Mary stirred, thinking about the name she’d given him.
Eli.
Something solid. Something steady. Funny, for someone so untethered.
She moved through the kitchen, sweeping crumbs from the counter, the scent of the frying vegetables curling into the cracks of the drafty windowpanes.
Her eyes flicked to the cast iron coin bank in the corner of Eli’s room across the hall — or rather, where it had been. The gaudy little thing had sat there for years, its painted red grin stretching too wide on its black face, its outstretched hand forever begging for the next coin. FEED ME, it had commanded in big letters along the base — bold, shameless, like the people who had thought it was a harmless joke.
She’d already searched the common areas, ignoring the room of her second boarder, who was out of town. A sharp, black shard of iron, dull and heavy, tucked in a corner beneath Eli’s bed, told her everything.
The coin bank was gone. The money, too. She hadn’t thought to move it. When Eli first arrived, he was so weak and unsteady he could barely walk through her door. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d have the strength — or the inclination — to take from her. He had been just another lost boy then, hungry and hollow. But she should have known better.
The bank was a gift from Miss Annabelle Sturgess, the woman she worked for back in the South.
“A little keepsake from your time with us,” Miss Annabelle had said, with the same sweetness she used when asking Mary to stay late, to cook extra, or to clean up after five coddled children and a husband who came and went as he pleased. As if Mary should be grateful.
Mary had smiled then, the way women like her always had to smile, and tucked it into her bag. She had learned early that kindness from people like Miss Annabelle always came with a price. There had been a time when Mary believed in it — when she thought a kind word, a little extra food, meant something real. Until the day Miss Annabelle had ‘loaned’ her flour and sugar for her own family, only to remind her of it later, expecting twice as much work in return.
“Fair’s fair,” she had said, smiling like Mary should have seen it coming. As if fairness had ever been part of the bargain. That was when Mary knew: nothing was given freely, not in this world. Not by rich people like Miss Annabelle anyway, who always kept the scales tilted in her favor. If poor folks needed care, they had to give it to each other — because no one else would.
So Mary hadn’t thrown the garish coin bank away. She had kept it and turned it into something useful. She had other money, of course — she wasn’t foolish. But this? This was a promise to herself. Every penny was meant for something bigger — a place where no one would have to knock, where the food would always be waiting. Every coin dropped into that grinning mouth was another step toward proving that women like Miss Annabelle weren’t the ones who decided what she could build.
Feed me. That’s what she had done — fed Miss Annabelle, fed those pampered children, fed anyone who came knocking, empty-handed and hungry. She hadn’t meant to start a community kitchen, but the first time she saw a neighbor linger near her door, pretending not to be hungry, she had handed them a plate. Then another. And another. Soon, folks just knew — Mary’s was where you went when you had nowhere else. A place where folks knew they could get a meal, a place that stretched every dollar and every pot.
And today, she was supposed to sign the lease on something bigger.
The storefront down the block had been sitting empty for months. A place with a real kitchen, real space for people to sit and eat, where she wouldn’t have to keep balancing pots on a tiny stove, stretching meals past their limits. She had been working with Rinehart, the preacher from the corner church, who had lined up the lease and said he’d make sure it got done. At noon, she was supposed to meet him there, sign the papers, and finally move one step closer to making it real.
That morning, Eli had slipped a crisp hundred-dollar bill into her palm. To cover past-due rent, he said. Won it playing the numbers, he said. Now, she saw it clearly. He had been trying to make up for something.
But it wasn’t enough.
She stood there, hands on her hips, staring at the empty space where the bank had been. For a moment, she let herself feel the weight of it. Her shoulders sagged, and she sank against the doorway. Another month. Another delay. Another dream postponed. She would have to walk to that storefront today, look Rinehart in the eye, and tell him she needed more time. Always more time.
She exhaled, the truth settling in. She should have known. The way he had pressed the money into her hand, too quick, too eager, like he needed to be rid of it. He hadn’t looked her in the eye when he gave it to her, and now she knew why.
No footsteps creaking on the floorboards. No rustling in the corner where he used to sit, always moving, always restless. Just silence. He had gone without a word. They always did. Young men who carried their burdens like armor, convinced their struggles were the heaviest in the world. Too consumed by their own troubles to notice the weight she carried. They thought they bore the world alone, never seeing the hands that had been holding it steady beneath them.
She should have known better.
Mary straightened, squared her shoulders, and walked back to the browning onions and garlic. No sense crying over it. The food would still get cooked. The people would still come to eat. One missing coin bank wasn’t going to stop the world from turning.
She picked up a knife, started chopping cabbage. She’d find another way. She always had. But damn if she wasn’t tired of waiting. Tired of knowing she’d have to do it all again tomorrow. But she would.
Outside, the city groaned and rumbled, restless as ever. Inside, in her tiny Harlem kitchen, there was warmth and food, and Mary started humming Back Water Blues, the melody low and familiar, winding through the quiet kitchen. Slowly, the words followed, rising steadily from her lips. Still standing. Still singing.
Originally published on Medium