Seven Months Later
The room was too damn loud. Televisions covered every wall inside the campaign headquarters.
Reporters talked over one another. Volunteers moved from table to table.
Phones rang, and supporters crowded every available inch of space wearing campaign shirts and carrying signs.
While I knew everyone was excited and anxious for the results, somehow all that noise felt distant.
Because all I could hear was my own heartbeat. I stood near the center of the room, staring at the giant election map projected onto the wall while votes were tallied. My lead had grown again, and an uproar erupted from somewhere behind me.
I barely reacted.
Twenty-four years in prison taught a man not to celebrate too early. Hope was dangerous, and it could hurt people.
Camilla’s hand slipped into mine. I looked down immediately. Lord have mercy, my wife was so damn beautiful. She was nine months pregnant and absolutely over everybody’s nonsense. The soft blue dress she wore hugged her swollen stomach while one hand remained protectively draped across our son.
Our son.
Even now, the thought felt surreal. She caught me staring.
“What?”
I smiled.
“Nothin’.”
“You’re lying.”
“I can’t wait until this shit is over so you can bounce on this dick, Millie Millz.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re trying to induce my labor.”
“Whatever it takes to meet my little man.”
Milla immediately winced. My entire body stiffened.
“What’s wrong?”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Relax. It was just a really hard kick.”
My hand instantly found her stomach. The second I touched her, our son responded with another dramatic kick.
The room disappeared, and I couldn’t give a damn about the election count.
There was something incredibly humbling about feeling proof of a future you never thought you’d live long enough to see.
Emotion tightened my throat unexpectedly.
Twenty-four years stolen.
Twenty-four years spent imagining moments exactly like this.
I felt like a king on top of the world. Mayor be damned, I was blessed to have this.
Family.
Love.
Peace.
Across the room, Xavier noticed me and Milla pulling away from the crowd immediately.
That Nigga never missed anything when it came to family.
He made his way over with Chanel tucked beneath his arm.
My sister looked happy, the kind of happy that once felt impossible after everything she’d survived. Seeing that alone felt like a blessing.
“You look like you’re about to cry, Jare.” Xavier grinned.
I cut my eyes at him. “Mind your business.”
“Definitely a crybaby ass Nigga.”
“X.” Chanel swatted his arm.
“I’m just saying, being in politics got my man soft.”
Chanel laughed. “Leave him alone.”
“Jare, how you feeling?” Kenya said as she made her way over to me.
For one beautiful second, it felt exactly like old times.
Before prison or funerals. Before the bloodshed and survival became the family business, there was once peace, and that feeling felt restored.
Tucked in the corner, my siblings and our partners were having a private moment full of laughter.
My campaign manager, Matthew, rushed over, pointing to the TV.
The last municipality’s results had come in as the reporter announced the shift in numbers. The room shook from the reaction.
Zay appeared beside me, carrying two glasses of bourbon. He handed me one. I looked at it. Then looked at him.
“You know I can’t drink this right now. My nerves are all over the place.”
“You ain’t gotta drink it.” His eyes remained fixed on the screen. “Just hold it.”
I laughed softly. Only Zayden would hand me bourbon for emotional support. The room settled again as another update prepared to come in. The silence felt heavier now. People stopped talking, and the once boisterous campaign hub had stopped moving and breathing.
The election analyst adjusted his earpiece. The room collectively leaned forward.
“We are officially prepared to call the mayoral race for Jared Davis.”
The words hung suspended in the air. My brain refused to process them. All I could make out were the words mayor and my name, Jared Davis. The concepts felt disconnected somehow.
This was impossible.
This was unreal.
Camilla’s hand flew to her mouth, and she started crying. The room exploded. People screamed and shouted. My dad dropped to his knees and thanked God. Chanel burst into tears, and Kenya ran around the room yelling, “My brother’s the mayor, bitches.”
I stood completely still.
Unable to move.
Unable to breathe.
Unable to think.
Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t being remembered for the worst thing that ever happened to me. I was being chosen for what I became afterward, and that realization hit harder than any prison sentence ever could.
My father wrapped both arms around me so tightly I thought he might crack a rib.
Neither one of us said anything at first; we just held on.
Because there had been too many years where neither one of us knew if we’d ever get this moment.
Too many conversations ended with “I love you” because neither one of us knew if we’d get another chance to say it.
When he finally pulled back, tears streamed openly down his face.
“My son.” His voice cracked. “My son.”
That did it. The tears I’d been fighting all night finally came, not because I won but because of what it took to get here.
My Dad grabbed my face with both hands.
The same way he did when I was a little boy.
The same way he did before football games.
The same way he did before sentencing.
“You deserved this.”
The words hit me square in the chest. Because for years I never believed that. But looking around the room today, I finally did.
AJ tackled me next. The boy was damn near grown now and still hugged me like he was ten years old. “We won!”
I laughed through tears. “We won.”
JoJo appeared immediately afterward, pretending he wasn’t emotional. The problem was I knew him too well. His eyes were red, and his voice was shaky. His chin kept trembling. The boy looked one second away from crying.
“You good?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes dramatically.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
JoJo, my tough middle child was softening up, letting his guard down and letting me love him, his brothers, and his mother the way God intended.
JoJo hugged me, and the second he did, the tears finally came.
That boy fought me every step of the way.
He questioned my motives, and he tested me.
He made me earn being his father, and somehow I loved him more for it. I wrapped both arms around him.
I thanked God for every difficult moment that brought us here.
Demir followed suit, hugging me and congratulating me, and last came my baby girl, Jazzy.
My baby girl nearly knocked me over. She threw her arms around my neck and cried into my shoulder while I held her.
For so many years, I thought fatherhood was over; I thought I missed too much and lost too much.
Now here she was embracing me as if no time was ever lost between us.
When I finally looked up, the room had become one giant celebration.
People were laughing, drinking, and dancing.
The campaign staff had transformed from professionals into family somewhere along the way.
Volunteers hugged one another, our neighbors celebrated, and my nieces, Genesis, Amara, and Aniyah, ran through the room with confetti streamers.
A campaign manager approached me carefully. “Mayor Davis.”
The title still sounded ridiculous, but I turned to greet him anyway.
“We need you at the podium.”
The room immediately quieted. Every media camera turned toward me. Every phone lifted, and every eye followed me as I walked to the podium.
When I got to the podium, I stood for a while.
I was taking in the magnitude of this moment.
Twenty-four years ago, I stood in a courtroom while people decided my future.
Tonight, I stood in front of my city while they handed it back.
Camilla slipped her hand into mine, standing at my right side.
The gesture grounded me instantly, and it reminded me who I was.
I was not a politician.
I was not a candidate.
But I was a husband, a father, a survivor.
The applause lasted almost a full minute. I waited and let all of the supporters bask in this moment because this moment didn’t belong to me alone. It belonged to every person who never gave up.
I adjusted the microphone and looked out across the crowd.
“Good evening, Crestwood.”
The room erupted again.
I laughed softly and waited for the noise to die down.
Then I continued.
“When I was twenty years old, I thought I knew exactly how my life would go. I thought success and power looked one way, and I thought strength could only be portrayed one way as well .”
My eyes drifted toward Camilla and toward my children.
“Life taught me differently. Twenty-four years ago, I lost my freedom.”
A few people lowered their heads. Others wiped tears away.
“But tonight isn’t about what I lost.” My voice strengthened. “It’s about what I found.”
The crowd applauded.
“I found purpose and faith. I found a family.”
My eyes settled on Camilla. And the smile that appeared on her face nearly stole the rest of my speech.
“I found love that refused to leave me behind. The city of Crestwood gave me a second chance. And I promise to spend every day earning it.”
The room stood, and every single person in the room gave a standing ovation that hit me harder than the election results.
For me, none of this was about politics.
This was about redemption and grace. It was a reminder of what became possible when people refused to define somebody by their worst day.
The applause grew louder. Then suddenly I heard a strange sound behind me. My Millie Millz gasped.
Xavier began yelling.
“Oh shit.”
Camilla was staring down at the floor. A puddle of water spread beneath her feet. Nobody moved in the room, and everyone looked worried.