Calla #2
My mother turned toward me, wiping her face. “What do you mean, baby?”
I took a breath, staring at my hands. “I’m in love with James and Amiyah. It’s real, it’s deep, and it’s healthy, but sometimes I still feel this panic in my chest. This voice that says I’m too much, that I’ll ruin it, that I’ll become him. That maybe I don’t know how to love without control.”
My mother’s expression softened with recognition. “That voice is fear,” she said quietly. “It’s not truth.”
Dr. Morgan nodded. “Fear often comes from the parts of us that still live in survival mode. You grew up watching control being used as a weapon. But you’ve turned it into structure, care, and leadership. You just have to learn when to set it down.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I want to build something beautiful with them, but what if I hurt them the way he hurt us? What if I become cold, or distant, or use love like leverage without even realizing it?”
Dr. Morgan leaned forward slightly. “Calla, awareness is what separates you from him. Abusers don’t question their behavior. They justify it. You are doing the work he never had the courage to do.”
My mother reached for my hand again. “You have his strength, but not his cruelty. You don’t destroy people, you build them. I’ve watched you do it your whole life. You love hard, but you don’t harm, that’s the difference.”
Tears burned my eyes again. “I just want to do right by them,” I whispered. “By James, by Amiyah. They make me feel seen in ways I didn’t know I needed. I’m ready to admit I want a family of my own, but not in the traditional sense. I want to create something that feels like peace.”
Dr. Morgan smiled softly. “Then that’s what you focus on.
Not recreating someone else’s version of family, but building one that aligns with your truth.
You’ve already broken the cycle by naming it.
” My mother squeezed my hand tighter. “You don’t have to be perfect to be loved, Calla.
You just have to be honest. They already know your strength, but letting them see your tenderness will keep you grounded. ”
I nodded, my throat thick. “It’s hard to believe I deserve something that good.”
“You do,” Dr. Morgan said firmly. “You all do. You’ve lived your whole life trying to prove your worth to someone who never had plans to see it. Now you get to permit yourself to be happy.”
The room went quiet again, but this time it felt lighter. The pain was still there, but so was the possibility. My mother leaned her head against my shoulder and whispered, “You’re nothing like him, Calla. You’re the woman I prayed you’d become.”
I closed my eyes and let myself feel that. I honestly believed my mother’s words and felt the love and sincerity in how she spoke them. It was as if she was breathing the life into me that Sr. had tried for so many years to take away.
After therapy, neither of us wanted to go home; it was one of those heavy days that needed warmth, not silence.
My mother looked over at me as we pulled out of Dr. Morgan’s parking lot because I picked her up and we rode together, something we’d never done. “You hungry?”
I nodded, smiling softly. “Always.”
She grinned, that familiar spark of humor glinting through the tears we’d shed earlier. “Olive and Oak?”
I laughed. “Where else?”
The Black, Fairfax, and Carter families had never needed a reservation there.
Olive and Oak wasn’t just a restaurant; it was a gathering place—home outside of home.
Every inch of it carried memories, from business dinners to birthday toasts.
It was where we went to be reminded of who we were before the world demanded more of us.
When we walked in, the staff greeted us by name. The soft light, the smell of rosemary and seared butter, the hum of quiet conversations, all of it felt like an exhale. We settled into a corner booth by the window, and for a while we just talked about ordinary things.
It wasn’t until the food came, steaming and fragrant, that my mother narrowed her eyes at me over the rim of her wine glass.
“You’re fidgeting,” she said, setting it down. “You only do that when something’s eating at you. What’s wrong, baby?”
I hesitated, stirring my pasta more than I ate it. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly. It’s just… something’s on my mind.”
She gave me that patient look that mothers perfect after years of waiting for you to tell the truth. “Talk to me.”
I set my fork down and leaned back, letting out a slow breath. “I’m in love, Mom. Like, really in love. With James and Amiyah.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, but her smile was warm. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s written all over you.”
That made me chuckle, a little embarrassed. “I guess I’m not as discreet as I thought.”
She shook her head. “You’re not. You’ve got that glow. The same one I used to get when your father hadn’t yet shown me who he really was. Only difference is, yours looks like peace, not pretending.”
Her words hit deeper than I expected.
I ran a hand through my hair. “I want to tell them how I feel, but I’m nervous. I told them before that I didn’t want children, that it wasn’t something I saw for myself, and at the time, I thought that was true. But after therapy today, after talking with you… I realized I said that out of fear.”
My mother tilted her head. “Fear of what?”
“Fear of becoming him,” I said softly. “Of repeating that cycle, of hurting someone the way he hurt us. But now, I don’t know. I look at James and Amiyah, and I think about what it would mean to build a life with them, and it doesn’t scare me; it actually excites me.”
Her eyes softened, her lips curving into a smile that reached all the way to her heart. “That’s the sound of love, Calla. The kind that heals instead of harms.”
I swallowed hard, blinking back tears I didn’t expect. “I just don’t want to mess it up.”
She reached across the table and took my hand, her thumb brushing my knuckles.
“Love isn’t about perfection, baby. It’s about presence.
It’s about showing up, even on the hard days; it’s about choosing people again and again, because you can’t imagine your life without them. That’s what Dro taught me.”
I smiled, thinking of Dro, her fiancé, Ajaih’s dad, the man who had somehow found a way to love her gently after all she’d endured.
She continued, her tone soft but sure. “Dro didn’t save me; he saw me, every flaw, every fear, every scar, and he stayed anyway. That’s what love really is, Calla. It’s not grand gestures and promises; it’s consistency. It’s building peace where chaos used to live.”
Her words settled deep inside me, steady and true.
I nodded slowly. “You think I can have that?”
She smiled again, her eyes shining. “I think you already do. You have to let yourself believe you deserve it.”
For a long moment, we sat in silence, just holding hands across the table while the restaurant buzzed softly around us.
I could picture it clearly: James' laugh, Amiyah’s warmth, a home filled with calm instead of fear, a family born out of choice, not survival.
And I realized, maybe love wasn’t something I needed to control after all.
Perhaps it was something I could finally trust. After dropping my mom off at home and saying hey to Dro, I headed to my place, where I hadn’t spent much time lately, and honestly, when I walked inside, it didn’t feel like home because the two people I loved the most weren’t there.
James had been busy as ever with all the city projects taking place; he was really showing the people of Winston Hills what it looked like when you say what you mean and mean what you say.
James Carter Jr. was putting our taxpayer dollars to work to make Winston Hills a better place through stellar infrastructure, and I loved watching him work.
Amiyah had been under the weather, cold and flu season having its way with her.
I’d been checking in, and James and I personally delivered fresh flowers and flu essentials daily.
I kicked off my heels by the door and loosened my blouse, the faint scent of Olive & Oak’s rosemary butter still clinging to my skin.
Therapy had cracked something open, dinner with my mother had soothed it, and now all I wanted was a long shower and the peace of my own bed and the warmth of my lovers.
I poured myself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, replaying the conversation at the restaurant.
Hearing my mother speak with so much softness after years of silence had done something to me.
It made me realize how badly I’d needed to be reminded that love wasn’t supposed to feel like endurance. It was supposed to feel like rest.
I was still caught in that thought when my phone buzzed on the counter.
Amiyah: Dinner at my place tomorrow? I’ll cook. Nothing fancy, I just wanna see you.
The corners of my mouth lifted instantly.
My baby seemed to be back to herself, and I was the first person she wanted to connect with.
For a moment, I just stared at the screen, the soft glow reflecting in the glass of wine I hadn’t realized I’d poured.
It hit me how much I’d missed her laugh, the way her presence filled a room, the warmth she brought without even trying.
I set my glass down and typed back, my heart thudding in that quiet, happy way that love makes it do.
Me: I’ll be there.
A few seconds later, another text came through.
Amiyah: Promise?
I smiled, shaking my head as I sank into the couch.
Me: Pinky.
I set the phone down beside me and closed my eyes, letting the comfort of it all wash over me. My mother’s voice echoed softly in my mind, “Let yourself be loved, Calla. You’ve earned it.” Tomorrow night, I would, without being afraid of what that meant.