Esther’s strength isn’t loud or imposing; it’s woven into her everyday actions. Her generosity shines even in the face of hardship, like the moment a hungry neighbor’s child, Petie Farrington, peers over the windowsill and pleads, “Mrs Roger’s can I please have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” Struggling to feed her own children, Esther could have turned him away. Instead, her boundless compassion shows that sometimes the smallest acts of kindness leave the deepest impact when she said “Sure you can Petie, come around to the kitchen.”

Esther’s lineage is steeped in resilience, a legacy forged in courage and sacrifice. Her ancestor, Reginald Fisher, and Robert Rogers—one of Red’s forebears—worked as “conductors” in the Underground Railroad, doing whatever circumstances required to help guide runaway slaves to freedom. Esther often gathered her children to share these stories, her voice trembling with both pride and reverence as she described the “stations,” secret hiding places in the attics of the old homesteads.

“They hid here, their lives at risk if they were caught” she would say, running her hand along the aged wood of the innocent looking panel that, if you knew how, you could slide open and it lead to where so many desperate hearts once beat in fear. “When the slave catchers came, we prayed these hidden places would keep us all safe.”

Her capacity to provide for her family is bolstered by small but heartfelt monetary gifts from her mother, Ava Fisher. Ava’s own past is one of quiet strength—she once played piano for a silent picture theater owned by Louis B. Mayer, one of Hollywood’s founding moguls. Now, as a live-in housekeeper for the wealthy Lawrence Langford, Ava’s modest support is a lifeline for Esther’s family.

In the story, Esther becomes increasingly worried about Red, who has been fired from his job at the Langford Factory—the same factory that mysteriously burned to the ground days later. When Red calls to tell her he’s found work in Nashville, Esther can’t help but question his motives. Is this just another one of his elaborate tales—his habit of “Telling Stories”- or is he trying to create an alibi for something far darker?

God gave me a mind for telling stories, and my baby she calls them lies. She said, come on home for breakfast. And I find her hanging clothes on the line. She’s been smoking my tobacco and the neighbors they got eyes, they know her kids ain’t got no daddy and my wife ain’t got no prize. He ain’t the man he used to be, you can see it in their eyes. They ain’t telling stories, and they ain’t about to tell no lies.

“Can’t Stop It” explores the profound weight of choice. For Jimmy Rogers, the decision is clear: chose his mother’s hope filled view  or succumb to his father’s despair. But the journey to that choice is anything but simple.