Chapter 1 Khloe
Khloe
I tightened my bonnet and stared at the woman looking back at me. I was still beautiful but somewhere along the way, I’d stopped being seen and started being secured instead.
Kairo was upstairs asleep. He always slept peacefully after closing million-dollar deals. I always lay awake, wondering when I’d get a deal that good.
The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. It was stacked with groceries he had delivered as an apology because he didn’t make it home in time for dinner again.
My law diploma hung on the wall beside our wedding portrait. One represented my dream. The other represented his interpretation of it.
He thought legacy meant buildings with our name on them. I thought it meant a family that felt chosen, wanted, and emotionally wealthy.
I slipped into my silk robe, grabbed the laundry basket, and headed downstairs. Kairo would always tell me that we could hire someone to do laundry, but movement was the only thing that kept silence from swallowing me whole.
I was pouring detergent into the washer when the kitchen lights snapped on down the hall, followed by a dramatic slam of the pantry door.
All I heard was rummaging and I didn’t even have to come out of the laundry room to know who it was.
Kennedi. My fifteen-year-old snack-gremlin, who was also my attitude-infused, bundle of joy. She had her phone in her hand on speaker while scrolling with one thumb while digging through the fridge with the other.
I stepped into the doorway quietly. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but the universe clearly had other plans.
A boy’s voice came through the speaker, deep and flirty.
And then Kennedi giggled the kind of giggle that carried possibilities.
The kind of giggle I used to have right before seventeen became eighteen.
Right before my entire life shifted into motherhood, sacrifice, survival, and moving different.
I listened for exactly eleven seconds before I stepped into the light. “Who is that on your phone this time of night?” I asked.
She jumped like she’d seen a ghost and screamed so loud she almost dropped her bag of Hot Cheetos. “Mom! Why are you creeping in the dark like a serial killer?!”
I crossed my arms. “I asked a question, Kennedi.”
She took the phone off speaker with a groan. “Just a friend, dang.”
“A friend shouldn’t be calling this late or have a voice that deep.” I shot back.
“Oh my God,” she dragged out dramatically, rolling her eyes toward the heavens. “It’s not even like that.”
I knew that line too well because I’d said it word for word when I was her age. The same person that once ‘wasn’t anything like that’ became my boyfriend and then my child’s father not too long after.
I walked toward the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and said, “If it’s not like that, then you won’t mind hanging up and talking during normal talking hours.”
She hung up the phone with exaggerated force. “Mom, you always do the most.”
“And you always do the least,” I snapped back automatically.
She gasped. “That was low!”
“So is sneaking on the phone with a boy after midnight,” I said.
The kitchen went quiet for a second. Just long enough for her to know the speech was coming.
“You’re about to give me the talk now, huh?” she whispered.
I exhaled. “I just don’t want you making the same mistakes I did.”
She groaned. “Here we goooo with the don’t have sex or your life will be horrible sermon.”
I snapped my fingers. “Don’t ‘here we go’ me, Kennedi Kai Givelle.”
I could feel the past crawling up my spine, not to haunt me, but to remind me.
“When I was your age,” I said, “I thought love would save me. I thought life would pause while I chased my dreams. I thought a promise meant the world would always bend in my favor.”
She rolled her eyes again, grabbing a Sprite and her Hot Cheetos. “I hear you, Mom. No sex. Life bad. Plans ruined. Women have to sacrifice. Blah blah blah.”
I pointed a finger at her so fast she flinched.
“You think I’m trying to block your fun,” I said, trying not to get annoyed with her attitude. “I’m trying to save your future. I missed out on college cheer and so much more. I had to chase my dreams with you on my hip. You deserve to chase yours without limits.”
Her face twisted. “You always make it sound like I ruined your life.”
“No,” I said immediately, shaking my head. “Baby, no. You were never the problem.”
I stepped closer, kissing her forehead gently. “You were the reason I survived the problem.”
She blinked. That teenage armor cracked, just a little.
I smiled sadly.
“You think I want you to avoid sex,” I said. “No, ma’am.”
I thought about the empire-chasing man I married who built us a life but forgot to make sure I still felt chosen inside of it.
“I want you to avoid a certain life. Some men think providing replaces being present. You will be left with certain responsibilities and lose yourself while they continue to live.”
She frowned. “Mom, what are you talking about now?”
I shook my head, walking back to the laundry room. “Nothing you need to understand at fifteen,” I said. “Just something I wish someone told me.”
She yelled after me, “Well you’re still successful and turned out fine!”
I didn’t turn around. I just whispered back into the life I was determined to protect for her since mine had to be built the hard way. “Yeah, so you could turn out free.”
I leaned against the washing machine, letting myself feel the vibration as a reminder that something was still moving, even if I felt stuck.
I stared at the white wall in front of me. I hated that I sounded bitter to her. I hated that my voice carried warning instead of warmth and fear instead of freedom. But fear was the only language that I taught myself.
I wasn’t mad that I became a mother young, and Kennedi was never the regret. She was the miracle that came wrapped in all the responsibility. What haunted me was the girl I never got to finish becoming before motherhood asked me to grow up faster than my dreams could keep up.
I didn’t have room to be reckless, curious, or selfish. Teenage motherhood taught me survival and how to choose stability over spontaneity every single time.
I had done everything right. That was the part no one talked about.
I stayed. I worked. I loved my husband faithfully. I raised our daughter with intention. I built a life that looked successful from the outside even when it felt lonely on the inside.
So why did it feel like something was missing?
The answer scared me because it wasn’t a thing.
I wanted for nothing and my husband made sure of that.
It was a feeling. I missed being desired without asking.
I missed being pursued without reminders.
I missed being touched like someone was afraid to lose me.
Kairo loved me. I never doubted that. But love had slowly turned into logistics, into late nights and early mornings, into “I’ll make it up to you” texts and exhausted apologies whispered into my hair before he’d fall asleep.
He thought sleeping beside me was intimacy. I thought intimacy was also being chosen while awake.
I rubbed my arms, aware of how quiet the house was again. Upstairs, my husband was resting from the weight of an empire he carried so effortlessly. My daughter was growing into the same kind of girl I used to be. Hopeful and curious, but unaware of how quickly love could rewrite a life.
When I found out I was pregnant with Kennedi, I’d told Kairo I didn’t want to depend on my parents.
I’d said I wanted to build something on our own since we chose to make adult decisions.
But when he heard that, he also heard ‘work until your hands bleed if it means she never has to ask anyone for anything again.’
He took my words literally. He didn’t understand the part where I needed him too.
That was the start of our mind games. It started with how easily love could be misinterpreted when ambition translated affection into action without emotional detachment.
I swallowed hard, blinking back tears I was tired of crying in private. I wasn’t asking him to stop chasing his legacy. I was asking him not to forget me while he did.
I wasn’t looking for trouble, but I was starting to realize that neglect had a way of introducing it anyway. I still loved and wanted the man who promised forever. I just didn’t know forever could feel this lonely.