two
The pink plastic banner over the porch kept falling.
The tape had given up half an hour into the party, but my mom kept marching over and slapping it back up like it had personally disrespected her. "Ghetto-ass wind," she muttered, squinting at the sky like she could fight the weather.
She looked stunning, of course. Even mad. Even sweating.
Her hair was slicked into a low, bone-straight ponytail that fell against her back like a sheet of black silk.
Her baby hairs were laid in perfect swoops, like calligraphy on her forehead.
White tank top, no bra, and those loose linen pants that made her hips look like magic.
Big gold hoops, acrylics done in a pink-and-white ombré, and sunglasses that sat on top of her head like a crown.
Everybody stared at her—men, women, even the aunties who tried not to act impressed.
Even I couldn't stop watching her.
I used to pray I'd grow up to look like my mom. Not just pretty. That kind of pretty that felt expensive even when you weren't. That kind of pretty that made people apologize before they spoke to you. That made them assume you had options.
She was the kind of woman who didn't have to yell to get attention—but still did. Just to remind you she could.
"You see how hot it is out here, and these damn kids just running around like they can't get heatstroke," she huffed, fanning herself with a paper plate.
I blinked, still clutching my paper plate of half-eaten cake. "They're just playing freeze tag."
She didn't hear me. Or maybe she did and didn't care. Either way, she turned around and went back inside to reapply her lip gloss, muttering something as she walked away.
There were kids everywhere—some from school, some from the block, one or two who didn't even know me but came for the Capri Suns and pizza.
There was a bounce house in the driveway and a Bluetooth speaker blasting the clean version of a Jeezy playlist that still somehow sounded dirty.
My cousins danced in a circle near the sidewalk, yelling the words they weren't supposed to know yet.
Someone's little brother cried because he dropped his slice of pizza on the grass.
It was chaos.
But it was mine.
My tenth birthday.
Double digits.
My parents had me young—barely twenty-five now, still learning how to be grown while raising me. Sometimes it showed. In the chaos. In the arguing. In the way they moved through life like they were still trying to figure it out. But I didn't know that yet. Not really. Not until later.
The big milestone I'd been waiting for since I could count that high. I had on a purple two-piece set with glittery hearts and jelly sandals that made too much noise when I walked, but I didn't care. I kept checking the driveway, scanning the street. One hand held a balloon, the other held hope.
Still no sign of him.
"Waiting for your daddy?" Auntie Lena asked from her spot on the porch swing. Her voice was rough like the bottom of a burnt pan, but her tone was soft. She had a wine cooler in one hand and a cigarette in the other, hair tied up in a scarf, slippers leaning off her heels.
I nodded. "He said he'd be here before the sun went down."
She gave me a half-smile, the kind adults do when they want to say something real but know they shouldn't. "You know he works late, baby. Might be a while."
I looked back at the driveway, swallowing the lump in my throat. "He said he'd come."
She didn't argue. Just reached out and tucked one of my braids behind my ear. That was the thing about Auntie Lena. She didn't lie to make me feel better. She let me hope anyway.
Technically, she was my aunt on my dad's side—Malik's sister—but her and my mom were best friends.
And then—just when the sun was starting to melt into the skyline and the air turned gold—he came.
The dented silver Toyota pulled up with the windows down, Stevie Wonder playing too loud for no reason but joy.
Even before he stepped out, the kids on the block were pointing. "Mailman Malik!" one of the boys yelled.
That was the thing about my daddy—everybody liked him. The moms, the kids, the old ladies who sat outside with fans and gossip. He always had a joke. Always remembered people's names. He could make you feel like the sun came out just for you.
My dad stepped out wearing his mailman uniform, socks rolled down, and that same proud, tired smile that somehow always made me feel brand new.
"There's my baby" he called, arms open wide.
I didn't even care that I had frosting on my chin or that my sandals slapped against the pavement as I ran. I launched myself into his arms like it was instinct.
"Double digits? Already? Man, you're making me feel old—and I'm only twenty-five!"
"I'm basically a grown up," I grinned, wrapping my arms around his neck.
"You'll always be my little girl," he said, kissing my forehead.
And then I heard it.
"Wow. Look who finally decided to show the fuck up."
My mom was standing on the porch now, arms crossed, body angled toward him like a storm system. The sun hit her from behind and made her look like a statue. Dangerous and untouchable.
He set me down gently, smile faltering. "Hey, I'm sorry. My route was—"
She cut him off with a scoff so loud it made the kids near the curb turn. "It's always something with you, Malik. You don't know how to plan nothing ahead? You couldn't even call?"
"It's her birthday," he said quietly.
"No shit," she snapped. "Maybe next year you'll actually show up on time instead of making a goddamn entrance."
Auntie Lena stood up, sighing, already stepping between them. "Alright, alright. Not today, please."
My mom held her stare on him a second longer, jaw locked like she was biting down on words I wasn't allowed to hear. Then she turned and walked back inside, ponytail swinging.
He exhaled through his nose, eyes following her for a beat. "All that, huh?"
Auntie Lena just rolled her eyes. "Don't act surprised."
And just like that, it was over.
He turned back to me, the smile soft but still there. He pulled a small box wrapped in shimmery gold paper from his pocket.
Inside: a silver locket. Oval, delicate. A photo of us at Coney Island—me with a corn dog, him mid-laugh with saltwater on his shirt.
"Now you can keep me close," he said.
I didn't cry. But something in me pulled tight, like a drawstring. Like maybe I already knew I'd need it more than I wanted to.
Later that night, the house smelled like balloons and pizza.
That cheap, sticky kind of sweetness that lingers when the fun is over.
The pink banner still drooped over the porch window, barely hanging on. Plastic cups lay tipped on the counter, glittery icing crusted on a few plates that someone—probably me—stacked near the sink. The music had long since cut off. So had the laughter.
My mom was in her room with the door half-shut, the glow from her phone lighting up her face like she was somewhere else. Talking to someone she didn't want me asking about. Probably didn't want to be asked anything at all.
I was in bed by nine.
The locket rested on my nightstand, catching the soft lamplight. It felt too special to wear to sleep, like I'd break it just by dreaming too hard.
When my daddy came in, I was still wide awake.
He pushed the door open quietly, slow like maybe I'd be asleep and he didn't want to ruin it.
But I rolled toward him.
"Can you read me one before your shift?" I whispered.
His whole face lit up—like that question alone had made his day worth it.
"Course I can," he said, cracking his knuckles before sitting beside me. "But just one, baby girl. Daddy's gotta head out again tonight."
Even in the dim light, he looked like someone who didn't belong to the day-to-day struggle—tall and warm-skinned, hair twisted low, lined up fresh. Eyes soft. Full lips that curved in that easy smile that made people trust him without trying.
He had been so excited when he got the job at the post office.
Told everyone in the family, even passed out cupcakes at my school that day.
But it didn't pay enough on its own, so he took overnight shifts at the warehouse just to keep the lights on.
He never complained. Said being tired was better than being behind.
I handed him the book, already open to our favorite story. I curled into the blanket, letting the sound of his voice carry me through each page like a raft in calm water.
When it ended, he kissed my forehead and pulled the sheet up to my chin.
"I love you, Amira."
"I love you more."
"Nah," he whispered. "Impossible."
That was the last time I saw him alive.
I don't know what time it was when I woke up.
Just that the room was dark, and the air felt wrong.
Heavy. Sharp. Like grief had already let itself in.
My mom's voice sliced through the silence. Loud. Wet. Raw.
"Don't fucking tell me that—NO, no, that's not—"
A crash. Something breaking. Then nothing.
I got up, feet bare against the cold hallway floor, heart pounding like it already knew.
In the living room, she was on the floor. Her knees pulled to her chest. The phone on speaker beside her.
Blood stained her bottom lip—just a split, but it looked like a scream frozen on her face.
She didn't see me at first.
Whoever was on the line was still talking.
Something about a hospital.
Something about a car.
Something about how fast it happened. How no one stopped.
My mom's scream ripped through the apartment.
Ugly. Animal. The kind of sound that didn't feel human.
I didn't cry.
Just stood there. Frozen. Watching her fall apart in real time.
Then she looked up.
And her face snapped shut.
Like I wasn't her daughter. Like I was a crack in the mirror she didn't want to look at.
"Go back to your room," she said, voice low and dangerous.
I didn't move.
"Now, Amira."
So I did.
I went back to bed and pulled the blanket over my head, but it didn't make me feel safe.
I kept my eyes open until the light started leaking through the curtains.
I walked toward my dresser, holding onto the locket like it might protect me from something I couldn't name.
But it felt cold now.