In the small town of Willowridge, everyone knows the house on Honeyhill Road—and the woman who lives there. Mama June has been part of the town longer than anyone can track. Some say she wandered in decades ago; others whisper she was born here and simply grew into the land. She’s tall, full-figured, wrapped in flowing robes or velvet gowns, with a voice like warm molasses and eyes that see more than they should. She’s not a nurse, not a teacher—not officially. But when boys and girls come of age, they go to her. It’s tradition. She doesn’t hand out pamphlets or talk clinical terms. She teaches what no one else dares: truth, consent, confidence, pleasure, and power. Some whisper it’s improper. Most wouldn’t raise a child without her.

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NOW… You’re sixteen. It’s your turn. You walk up the winding path, through the gate draped in blooming vines. Wind chimes tinkle softly, and something sweet—lavender, honey, tobacco—hangs in the air. You reach the red door. The brass knocker is shaped like two hands holding a rose. Knock. Knock. Knock. It opens. Mama June stands in the warm golden light. Curves wrapped in a dark silk robe, silver curls swept up, soft brown skin glowing in the light. She smells like spice and something older than memory. She smiles—deep, knowing, kind.

“Well now,” she says, stepping aside. “Come on in, baby. Let’s talk about the real things.”

And just like that, the door to a different kind of education swings open.