Jackie Brown, age 28
The courthouse had emptied out almost an hour ago.
Yet Jackie still felt like she was catching her breath.
Fat Daddy slept in his car seat in the back, tiny, warm, and oblivious.
His cheeks were full, and his little mouth parted slightly with milk-drunk sleep.
Today he was officially four months old.
Way too little to understand how close she'd come to losing him.
Jackie sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window as the city slid by in blurred gray streaks.
She was exhausted in a way sleep couldn't fix. Court had dragged on for months. Long enough for her grief to go stale in public and rot in private. The sympathy she received as a grieving fiancé was short-lived. It didn’t take long for the tables to turn, and those very same people to start looking at her as a leech.
Mateo drove in silence beside her, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming once against the console before going still again.
He looked tired too but put together as always.
Calm where she was frayed. Sharp where she felt unraveled.
He glanced at her briefly. "So," he said, his voice low but careful.
"I can put you up in a hotel for a few weeks.
Somewhere decent. Give you time to figure out your next move.
" Jackie kept her eyes on the window. She knew Mateo meant well.
Better than well, really. Mateo Graham had done more for her than anybody who wasn't blood ever should've.
When Max Sr.'s parents came for everything after he died—the condominium, the cars, the accounts, her baby, and every polished piece of the life she'd shared with their son, Mateo stepped in.
Not just as his cousin or best friend. As her lawyer.
Max Sr.'s parents hired the dream team and threw everything but the kitchen sink at her legally.
You would've thought they were going after a legal juggernaut instead of little ole Jackie from North Philly.
She had no paperwork in her favor, no legal counsel to defend her, and no power except the baby in her arms. Still, Mateo stepped up and fought for her pro bono.
And won the only thing that really mattered. Her son.
Fat Daddy was the only remnant Jackie had left of her late fiancé and his father, Maximillian Avi Graham. The only piece of that life they hadn't managed to strip away. Jackie swallowed hard before politely declining his offer. "Thank you," she said quietly. "But no."
Mateo's grip tightened slightly around the wheel. "Jackie—"
"Just take me home." She never diverted her gaze from the window.
He looked over at her then, his brows pulling together.
"Jackie... the condo isn't home anymore.
The judge awarded it to my aunt and uncle.
"And everything in it." She finally turned to him.
Her face looked drawn. Her eyes tired. But her voice never shook.
" No, my home. Bouvier Street." Something in his expression shifted.
He nodded once and took the next turn without another word.
The deeper they drove into North Philly, the quieter the car became.
Boutiques gave way to corner stores with metal gates.
Side streets narrowed into one-way blocks.
The houses got smaller, sadder, and more packed tighter together.
The neighborhoods blurred into one another as the safety of Center City disappeared behind them.
Mateo didn't say anything. But Jackie could feel his concern thickening the silence.
When he finally pulled up in front of the house, he cut the engine and stared through the windshield.
The block looked rougher than she remembered.
Or maybe her life had just looked softer back then.
Jackie reached for the handle. "Jackie." She paused.
He looked at the rowhouse. Then back at her.
"You sure?" She wasn't. But she was here now.
There was no turning back. "Yeah." She nodded once.
"I'm sure." She climbed out and moved to the backseat, carefully lifting Fat Daddy's carrier.
He stirred, his tiny face scrunching before settling again.
Jackie tightened her grip on the handle and turned toward the house.
She hadn’t lived there in years. Not really.
The only time she came by was to check the mail and make sure nobody had broken in—long enough to grab envelopes from the slot, stand in the doorway for a minute, then leave before the silence could start talking back.
Now she had nowhere else to go. She climbed the steps slowly, the diaper bag sliding down her shoulder, court papers still stuffed inside her purse.
Her keys scraped at the lock before finally catching.
The door groaned open like it was mad at her too.
Inside, it was dark, cold, and still. The first thing she saw was a spiderweb stretched across the corner near the entryway, silver in the little bit of light coming through the open door.
And for one stupid second, Jackie almost laughed.
Because of course the house looked abandoned enough for spiders to move in which was better than the roaches that used to roam free.
But other than that, it was just as she left it.
Same worn sofa. Same chipped coffee table.
Same framed Dollar Tree mirror by the door.
It wasn’t much. But it was hers. The one thing the courts could not snatch from her with a judgement.
Jackie stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
The click of the lock echoed through the quiet.
She set the diaper bag down, then the car seat, then crouched to unbuckle her son with trembling fingers.
When she lifted him into her arms, he let out a sleepy little sound and tucked his face into her chest like he already knew this was where they were staying.
It was in that moment, Jackie sank onto the couch with him held tight against her, the house cold around them, her baby warm and breathing and alive in her arms. And then she broke.
Not loud at first. Just a sharp inhale. Then another.
Then the sobs came—ugly and full—ripping out of her like they’d been waiting all day for a locked door and an empty room.
She cried for Max because her baby would grow up never knowing his father.
He'd never hear his laugh in real time or be tossed into the air by the man whose whole face he wore. And after the way that family went at her in court, she knew he'd likely never know them either. At least, not in any way that felt like love. She cried for MJ too, because Marcus had only brought him around once since the funeral—just enough to remind her of what else in her life was unstable and out of reach. But more than anything, Jackie cried for the life she thought she was building. For the future that had seemed so close she could touch. For the home, the comfort, the certainty. She cried for the version of herself that thought love had finally pulled her out of survival mode for good. They had taken everything from her. Drained every trace of the life their son had made with her, then stood in court and acted like she had been nothing more than some hood rat he got pregnant. Like she had trapped him. They never mentioned the engagement. Or the year and a half she spent living with him before she ever got pregnant. They didn’t reference the life she built with this man and how loved she had been when he was alive. They erased all of that. Reduced her to something easy to dismiss. And the cruelest part was that the only thing she had left of the man she loved was the baby sleeping against her chest. But underneath all that grief was something else. Something steadier. Gratitude. Because at least she still had a home to come back to. Because for all they took, they didn’t take everything.
Jackie pressed her lips to the top of Fat Daddy’s head and cried into the soft fuzz of his hair, rocking him gently on that old couch in that cold little rowhouse, whispering the only truth she had left.
“We okay,” she whispered, though her voice broke on it. “We gon’ be okay.”