It’s always just been me and Malik.
No partner to lean on, no village to call. Just the two of us, making it through each day with scraped knees, empty cupboards, and whispered prayers into worn pillowcases.
I had Malik at twenty-two. His father left before I could even say the word pregnant out loud. I remember holding that tiny boy in my trembling arms, overwhelmed by fear. He felt so small, and I felt so utterly unready.
Thirteen years have gone by. I still don’t have it figured out. I juggle two jobs—waiting tables and cleaning offices—and crash each night in a haze of fatigue, smelling like bleach and fried food.
Malik’s grown up in the cracks of that chaos. I see the weight on him, how he shrinks and fights the world at the same time. He slams doors, he talks back, his laughter carries tension like it’s afraid to be loud.
He isn’t bad. But the choices he made lately have been. Skipping school. Fighting. That sharp tongue of his earning more trouble than praise. Last month, the principal called—Malik had shoved another kid down the stairs.
Three weeks ago, the police showed up. They sat in our cramped kitchen with their stale coffee breath and well-worn warnings: “You need to get your son on track.”
