YAYA
I w o k e u p to light pouring in through my apartment windows and my phone buzzing beside me. I didn’t reach for it right away. My body was heavy with pregnancy and heavy with emotion. The kind of heavy where everything felt sore like even my thoughts had weight.
I rubbed my belly absentmindedly, my palm gliding over the soft cotton of Ezra’s sweatshirt that I’d fallen asleep in. Our son stretched beneath my skin, a soft kick pressing outward like he was checking in.
“I know, son son,” I murmured. “We’re both tired.”
The FaceTime call from last night sat like a stone in my chest. Ezra’s voice still lingered. It was raw, strained, and tired in a way that wasn’t just physical either. The kind of tired that came from carrying guilt and pressure too long without setting it down.
I loved him. That was never the question. But love had been loud, poetic, and full of possibility in the beginning. Now? Now it was quiet. A daily decision. A conscious breath. A question of whether love could survive the noise of two dream chasers running in opposite directions. I finally reached for my phone and read the text from Erin.
You good boo? Want me to stop by with that tea you like?
Then, I read a text from my dad.
Let me know if you need anything today. I can stop by after golf.
But the one I hovered over was from Ezra.
Boarding in 30. Should land by noon. I love you.
I stared at it for a minute. My chest rose and fell slowly with my fingers resting just below my belly button. Yes, I wanted to see him. Yes, I wanted him here. But I also wanted to not have to want those things all the time. I needed consistency and stability. I needed to not cry in exam rooms while the nurse rubbed cold gel on my stomach and the only voice I had to lean on was my own.
Still, I typed back:
I love you too. Can you try to be fully present? I’m too close to bringing a whole person into this world to carry both of us. I need you.
I hit send, put the phone on my nightstand, and eased out of bed with a grunt. I placed a hand on my belly again. “We’re gonna be okay,” I whispered. “One way or another.”
E z r a a r r i v e d a r o u n d one-thirty. I heard the knock and didn’t rush to the door although I wanted to. When I opened it, he was standing there in a puffer vest, gray hoodie and joggers and a duffle bag slung over one shoulder. His locs were tied back and his good eye was tired but soft.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey.”
He instantly pulled me into his arms and just held me the way I needed to be held like he knew I’d been craving his touch. I melted into him, burying my face in his chest and inhaling that familiar mix of shea butter, and cologne. He was home.
Pulling apart, we stared for a second too long before I stepped aside and let him in. He walked past me, dropped his bag near the couch, and turned back around. “You look good.”
I raised an eyebrow since I was only wearing a kimono and slippers. “I look like I’ve been carrying a human and a relationship with one hand for seven months.”
He didn’t smile or flinch. He just nodded. “Fair.”
We sat across from each other—him on the couch, me in the armchair, and our son doing slow rolls in my stomach between us. “He’s been moving like crazy today,” I said quietly.
He perked up just slightly. “Yeah?”
I nodded. “He calmed down when he heard your voice last night though.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I hate that I keep missin’ shit.”
“So stop,” I said. “Stop missing them. Stop saying yes to everything but this.”
His hands rubbed his knees, his leg bouncing. “You know how hard I’ve worked to get here. To have this momentum.”
“I know,” I said. “But you’re building something out there while something’s being built in here. Inside me. Right now. And I can’t keep waiting for your schedule to make space for your child, Ezra.”
Silence.
He leaned back on the couch and rubbed his eyes before looking at me again. “I know you think I don’t give a fuck, but I do, Yaya,” he said. “I’m drownin’ in guilt every fuckin' day tryna be enough in both places. Honestly, I’m scared to slow down and lose everything I done built… but I’m also scared to lose y’all.”
I blinked, surprised at the honesty. “You won’t lose us,” I said, softer this time. “But I can’t give birth in an environment that feels like I’m begging you to show up. That’s not fair to me or him.”
He nodded, slowly. “Aight,” he said. “So what do we do?”
“We set a plan,” I replied. “Real dates. Real boundaries. I need you to be present in more than promises.”
“I’ll stay,” he said suddenly. “I’ll cancel next week and stay here until the baby comes.”
I watched him closely. “You sure?”
He nodded. “Yeah. We need this. I’ll make it work.”
I exhaled, the tension in my chest loosening just a little. “Then stay.”
We stared again. This time softer. “I love you,” he said, voice cracking. “Even when I’m fuckin’ up. I love you.”
“I know,” I said. “I love you too.”
He stood up slowly and crossed the room. He knelt in front of me and pressed his lips to my belly. “I’m here now,” he whispered.
I rested my hand on his head and closed my eyes. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t romantic. But it was real and in this moment, that was enough.
T h e n e x t f e w days felt like falling in love again. Ezra really did stay. Not just in my apartment but with me. Fully present. He called my OB’s office to book an appointment just for an ultrasound to see our son. He was there with one hand resting gently on my thigh like he couldn’t help needing contact.
“He’s growing fast,” the nurse had said, guiding the wand over my stomach. The heartbeat filled the room and Ezra squeezed my hand, eyes glassy again like they always got when he heard him.
“I still don’t know how somethin’ that tiny but strong is inside you,” he whispered on the way out, his palm wide and warm across my belly.
“You’re the one who helped put him there, genius,” I teased.
He grinned. “Yeah… and now I’m stayin’ here to make sure I earn the right to keep y’all.”
That night, we cooked dinner together. Well, I cooked, and Ezra mostly danced behind me, shirtless in sweatpants, moving to Lauryn Hill and D’Angelo’s Nothing Even Matters on my Bluetooth speaker while I whipped up steak, garlic and herb rice, and asparagus. I laughed so hard my damn cheeks hurt.
Later, we ate while curled up on the couch, the baby pressing against both our hands when he kissed my shoulder and whispered, “He really be in there wildin’, huh?”
The sex came like a rhythm after he massaged my feet and kissed the arch of my ankle like he was apologizing with every breath. He’d undressed me slowly, carefully, as if relearning my body was sacred. And then he made love to me from the side with slow, deep strokes. Both of us breathing hard and whispering things we were too afraid to say with the lights on. We fell asleep sweaty and tangled, his heartbeat still thumping between us.
On the third day, we went for a walk through the park where we had our first date. It was chilly out but Ezra kept his arm around me. We talked about baby names and whether we’d move into something bigger after the baby was born.
“Eventually,” I said. “But I’m not in a rush. I just want peace.”
He kissed my temple. “Then that’s what we’ll build, baby.”
It felt like the beginning again like the softness we lost had returned in pieces with one forehead kiss, one oiled belly massage, and one shared bowl of ice cream at a time. And I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this was it. That is until my parents showed up.
It was late afternoon and I’d just gotten out of the shower. Ezra was in the living room trying to assemble the bassinet he’d just purchased when the knock came. I called out from my bedroom, “Babe, can you get that?”
I quickly threw on a pair of leggings and a tank top before slipping into furry slides. I was halfway down the hall when I heard the one voice I hadn’t expected to hear.
“Well, isn't this a surprise?” my mother said, eyes moving from Ezra to the hallway behind him. To me. She walked in further with my father following behind, lips pressed tight, eyes already reading too much.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, forcing a breath. “Daddy.”
“Wanted to check on the you and our grandson,” she replied, “but I see he’s not the only one getting all the attention.”
Ezra looked at me, then back at them, his posture still respectful, but more guarded now. “I’mma just head out,” he said politely, stepping into his Timbs and grabbing my keys.
“You don’t have to go,” I said quickly, but the shift was already happening. My mother’s pursed lips, my father’s cold eyes. The subtle judgments that always came dressed in manners.
“Nah, it’s cool. I’ll be back in a few,” Ezra said, brushing a kiss to my temple. “Text me if you need anything.”
But when he passed my father in the doorway, there was a pause. The air thickened. Ezra looked him in the eye. My father didn’t break his stare and Ezra didn’t flinch. He just walked out, closing the door behind him as I let out a frustrated breath.
“Why are you making this harder than it has to be?” my mother asked, sitting on the edge of the couch like it might stain her.
“Harder?” I repeated, unsure of what the hell she meant by that. “What are you even talking about?”
“You have a child coming, Yavanni,” she said sharply. “You have a whole career and reputation. You don’t need someone who can barely manage how to juggle life.”
I blinked at her. “You mean the father of my child? The man who’s been here every day this week?”
“Yeah, this week,” my father spoke up finally, arms crossed. “You’re making decisions off love, not logic. Love fades. Parenthood is forever, Yavanni.”
“I’m not asking for permission,” I snapped. “I’m asking for peace. You can either be there to support me and my decisions or don’t be there at all!”
“Calm down. You’re emotional,” my mother replied. “Pregnant and playing house with a poet just isn’t what we want for you.”
“No, I’m a grown ass woman building a life with someone,” I said, voice rising now. “Which is more than I can say for the people who only come around when they want to control the narrative.”
“Watch your tone,” my father said.
I stepped forward. “Watch how you speak on the man I love.” Silence. Then I said it, chest heaving, voice cracking, “If you can’t accept Ezra, then… just stay out of my life.”
My mother’s lips parted in disbelief as my father narrowed his eyes. But neither said a word as I moved toward the door to hold it open. They left a minute later and I slammed the door before waddling over to the couch. I sank into it, hands shaking, belly fluttering as if my son could feel the rage still lingering in my body.
And I cried. Not because I regretted anything I said but because it hurt. Because choosing peace over family wasn’t easy. Because sometimes love demanded boundaries and clear lines, even when they cut deep. And I just hoped, that wherever Ezra was walking, he knew that I’d always choose him loudly, publicly and unapologetically.