14. TRUTH #4
“You hear me?” Mama asked, her voice softer now.
“I hear you,” I said, my voice steadier than it had been.
“Good.” Mama released my hands and stood, smoothing down her house dress. “Now. You staying here today. You need rest. You need to think. And tomorrow, you start getting answers.”
“Mama—”
“No arguments,” Mama said firmly. “This house is paid for. It’s mine. And as long as I’m breathing, you got a place to come home to. You understand?”
I nodded, fresh tears spilling over.
“Good,” Mama said again. Then she looked at Raven. “You staying too?”
“Yeah,” Raven said, her voice quiet. “I’m staying.”
Mama nodded, satisfied. “Then I’ll make up the couch for you. Truth, you take your old room.”
She turned and walked toward the kitchen, her movements brisk and purposeful.
I sat there on the sagging couch, surrounded by the familiar clutter of my childhood home, and felt something shift inside me.
Mama was right.
I’d been moving through this blind, letting Amai and Kaisen and everyone else make decisions for me. Letting them control the narrative.
But I was done with that.
I was done being a pawn.
If I was going to survive this—if I was going to protect my baby and myself—I needed to stop reacting and start acting.
I needed answers.
And I was going to get them.
I woke up the next morning with clarity I hadn’t felt in weeks.
The sun was already streaming through the thin curtains of my old bedroom, casting familiar shadows across the walls. I could hear Mama moving around in the kitchen, the smell of coffee drifting through the house. Raven was still asleep on the couch in the living room, her arm thrown over her face.
I sat up slowly, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach. The nausea was there, lurking beneath the surface, but it wasn’t overwhelming yet. I had a window of time before it hit.
And I was going to use it.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and opened my banking app. The balance stared back at me: $57,832.
It was the money Amai had given me. The $10K Kaisen handed me at the salon. Money I’d been too scared to touch because I didn’t know what it meant or what strings were attached.
But now I knew exactly what it meant.
It meant leverage. It meant options. It meant I didn’t have to depend on anyone.
I opened a new browser tab and started searching for rental properties in New Orleans. Not apartments—I was done with apartments. I needed something with space. Something with a yard. Something that felt like mine.
I scrolled through listings, my thumb moving quickly across the screen. Too expensive. Too small. Too far from Mama’s house. Too close to the Garden District where Amai’s world operated.
Then, I saw it.
A brick two-story on Mimosa Ct in the Seventh Ward. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a small front porch, and a fenced-in backyard. The photos showed hardwood floors, high ceilings, and windows that let in natural light. It wasn’t fancy, but it was solid. Real.
The rent was $1,850 a month.
I could afford that.
I clicked on the listing and read through the details. Available immediately. First month, last month, and security deposit required upfront. That was $5,550 total.
I had that.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the screen, my heart pounding.
This was it.
This was me taking control.
I called the number listed on the property.
A woman answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m calling about the property on Mimosa Ct. Is it still available?”
“It is,” the woman said. She sounded older, her voice warm but businesslike. “Are you interested in scheduling a viewing?”
“Yes. Can I see it today?”
There was a pause. “Today? Well, I suppose I could meet you there around ten. Would that work?”
I glanced at the time on my phone. It was 8:47 AM.
“That works,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
“Great. My name is Mrs. Thibault. I’m the property manager. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Truth Renois.”
“Alright, Miss Renois. I’ll see you at ten.”
I hung up and sat there for a moment, letting the reality of what I’d just done sink in.
I was going to see the house.
I was going to secure it.
I was going to have my own space.
I stood and moved quickly, pulling on the clothes—jeans and a loose blouse that didn’t cling to my stomach. I brushed my teeth in the small bathroom, splashed water on my face, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail.
When I walked into the kitchen, Mama was sitting at the table with her coffee, the morning paper spread out in front of her.
She looked up when I entered. “You up early.”
“I have somewhere to be,” I said, pouring myself a glass of water.
Mama’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Where?”
“I’m going to look at a house.”
Mama set her coffee cup down slowly. “A house?”
“A rental,” I clarified. “On Mimosa Ct. I’m meeting the property manager at ten.”
Mama studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she nodded. “Good.”
“Good?”
“You heard me,” Mama said. “You need your own space. You need somewhere that’s yours. Not Amai’s. Not Kaisen’s. Not even mine. Yours.”
I felt something loosen in my chest. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
“You got money for it?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “I do.”
Mama didn’t ask where the money came from. She just nodded again. “Then go. And don’t let nobody talk you out of it if it feels right.”
“I won’t.”
I grabbed my purse and keys and headed for the door.
“Truth,” Mama called after me.
I turned back.
“You doing the right thing,” she said, her voice firm. “You taking control. Don’t let nobody make you feel bad about that.”
I nodded, my throat tight. “I won’t.”
The house on Mimosa Ct was exactly what I needed.
Mrs. Thibault was waiting for me on the front porch when I pulled up. She was a short, round woman in her sixties with silver hair pulled back into a neat bun. She wore a floral dress and sensible shoes, and she smiled warmly when I got out of the car.
“Miss Renois?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come on in, sweetheart. Let me show you around.”
She unlocked the front door and stepped inside, and I followed.
The house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and fresh paint. The living room was spacious, with hardwood floors that gleamed in the morning light. The walls were painted a soft cream color, and there was a fireplace in the corner that looked like it hadn’t been used in years but could be.
“Previous tenants just moved out last week,” Mrs. Thibault said, leading me through the space. “We cleaned it top to bottom and repainted. Everything’s in good condition.”
I walked through the living room into the dining area, which opened into a small but functional kitchen. The appliances were older but clean. The countertops were laminate, not granite, but they were solid. There was a window above the sink that looked out onto the backyard.
“Upstairs are the bedrooms,” Mrs. Thibault said, gesturing toward the staircase.
I followed her up. The stairs creaked slightly under my weight, but they were sturdy.
The master bedroom was at the front of the house, with two large windows that let in plenty of light. The closet was small but manageable. The second bedroom was slightly smaller, and the third was just big enough for a nursery.
A nursery.
I stood in the doorway of that third bedroom and felt something settle inside me.
This was it.
This was where I was going to raise my baby.
“Bathroom’s right here,” Mrs. Thibault said, opening the door to reveal a small but clean space with a tub-shower combo and a pedestal sink.
“It’s perfect,” I said, my voice quiet.
Mrs. Thibault smiled. “You like it?”
“I do.”
“Well, if you’re interested, we can go ahead and start the application process. I’ll need first month, last month, and security deposit upfront. That’s $5,550 total. And I’ll need to run a credit check and verify employment.”
My stomach tightened. “My credit isn’t great.”
Mrs. Thibault’s expression softened. “How not great?”
“I went through a divorce,” I said carefully. “My ex-husband destroyed it. I’m rebuilding.”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Do you have the money for the deposit?”
“I do.”
“And can you provide proof of income?”
I hesitated. I didn’t have a job right now—I’d been focused on nursing school and the surrogacy arrangement. But I had the money Kaisen and Amai had given me, and I had the contract with Amai that outlined the surrogacy payments.
“I can provide documentation,” I said carefully. “I’m currently involved in a surrogacy arrangement. I receive payments.”
Mrs. Thibault raised an eyebrow. “A surrogacy arrangement?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Alright. If you can provide documentation of that income and pay the deposit upfront, I’ll waive the credit check. But I need the money today.”
“I can do that.”
Mrs. Thibault smiled. “Then let’s go back to my office and get the paperwork started.”
Two hours later, I walked out of Mrs. Thibault’s office with keys in my hand.
The house on Mimosa Ct. was mine.
Not legally mine—I was renting, not buying—but it was mine in every way that mattered. My name was on the lease. My money had secured it. My decision had made it happen.
I sat in my car in the parking lot of Mrs. Thibault’s office and stared at the keys in my palm.
I’d done it.
I’d taken control.
I pulled out my phone and opened my contacts. My thumb hovered over Amai’s name for a long moment.