Chapter 2 Khloe
Khloe
Six months pregnant during Thanksgiving break was amazing. All I did was eat, sleep, and repeat. Kairo’s room was so cozy. We’d both survived our first semester of college, and somehow convinced our parents to let us spend Thanksgiving alone together since it’ll be our last.
The room was still quiet when I woke up from the nap we’d started after plates of turkey and dressing. Kairo was sleeping face to face with my belly like always.
“Listen, lil’ mama,” I heard him whispering to my belly with his thumb brushing slow circles like he already knew her.
“You got the best mama in the world. She is strong, smart, and fine as hell. You gon’ see.
And I promise you… I’m finna be the best dad I can be.
You won’t have to worry about anything. I got y’all. ”
My heart felt full and swollen like my ankles had been for weeks.
I just watched him, in love, silent tears gathering but not falling.
Because I was witnessing a future I couldn’t wait to step into.
He didn’t know I was awake yet, so when he finally glanced up and noticed my eyes on him, he froze, then smiled. “Oh, you up? I didn’t wake you, did I?”
I shook my head, smiling. “No. I just like listening to you run your mouth to her.”
He laughed leaning closer. “Run my mouth? I’m hyping up our child. Her father will be her favorite, thank you very much.”
I rolled my eyes, but he was probably right.
He propped himself on his elbow, eyes full of concern and affection. “You need something? You good? You been feeling okay?”
“Kairo, baby,” I said gently, reaching to rub his head, “I’m fine. I’m just a little nauseous. That’s all.”
His face changed instantly. “You sure? You need ginger ale? Crackers? You want me to rub your back? You want me to go get Mama G’s nausea tea? Just say the word.”
I waved him off, laughing. “Boy, I said I’m fine. Stop treating me like I’m dying.”
He stared at me, unbothered. “I’m treating you like you’re pregnant. There’s a difference.”
I sighed dramatically. “Well, don’t. You gon’ spoil me too much that I’ll be jealous and miss it when the baby gets here.”
“That’ll never happen,” he said, leaning down to kiss my stomach then leaned up to my lips.
I smiled against his mouth. “I can’t wait until January. I’m ready to move into our off-campus apartment. I’m tired of dorm food and curfews and sneaking up here like I’m not grown.”
His whole face lit up like somebody turned his future on full brightness. “January will change everything. I can’t wait to see how you decorate. I really wanted to get you the nicer apartment though, the one with the—”
I put a finger to his lips and shook my head.
“It’s fine,” I said softly. “We have to crawl before we walk. It’s cheap enough to where we can both afford it with our work-study checks and my tutoring. I want us to do this on our own. No parents.”
He blinked at me, listening to my need for independence, my stubborn heart, and vision for us. Then he kissed me again, choosing the peaceful route with me.
“Okay,” he said. “No parents. Just us. We got this.”
He kissed me again, but his eyes changed. His concerned eyes turned into hunger, and he started kissing and sucking my neck.
I burst out laughing. “Again? You gon’ get tired of getting it so much!”
He shook his head, grabbing a handful of my ass.
“Never,” he said. “I don’t care how old I am or how much I get it. I’ll never get tired of making love with you.”
I woke before the sun fully shined into the room.
The dream of our past lingered in my mind like a warm hand on my spine.
I loved to play back memories of us younger, softer, and impossibly close.
Back when love didn’t need translating. Back when affection was instinct and not effort.
I could still feel his lips on my neck and hands all over me.
It pulled at me in a way that felt bittersweet now.
I rolled over slowly, reaching for him in hopes that we could start our morning making a mess with our bodies.
But his side of the bed was smooth and empty.
My hand landed where his chest should’ve been, my palm brushing cold fabric instead of warm skin.
Then I saw a folded piece of paper resting on his pillow.
Ran to the gym with my trainer. Didn’t want to wake you. Love you.
I closed my eyes, the disappointment was heavier than annoyance ever could be.
He always thought consideration looked like silence and letting me sleep.
Consideration to him was handling the world so I wouldn’t have to lift a finger.
And in the beginning, maybe that was romantic.
Maybe it was attentive. But somewhere along the years, the attentiveness turned toward towers of work that I could admire but not compete with.
I pulled the comforter over my head and let out a muffled scream into the pillow beneath me. A moment of release swallowed by feathers and cotton.
I was frustrated, but I didn’t feel like crying. I was past crying over patterns that had become predictable. What hurt more was how unexpected the emptiness still felt, even when I should’ve been used to it by now.
I laid there, staring into the ceiling, letting the emotion wash over me. I felt like a woman missing a man who was still alive, still hers, still loving her in the only way he understood how.
But understanding wasn’t the same as being understood.
I pulled into the parking lot of the firm a little after 8 a.m. The building was beautiful and was the kind of place people assumed came with a corner office. It did, but just not the way I once imagined for myself.
When I stepped inside, the receptionist looked up so fast like she’d seen a ghost.
“Mrs. Givelle? You’re in today?”
I nodded, smiling. “Yeah. I know it wasn’t on the schedule.”
She clicked around on her computer scanning her calendar. “I just checked… you don’t have any meetings or clients today.”
“I know,” I said softly. “I just needed to get out of the house.”
She was relieved. “Well… okay. Do you need anything before you head back?”
I shook my head. “Is my dad in today?”
“No, ma’am. He’s in court today.”
I exhaled, nodding. “Okay. I’ll be in my office.”
The hallway was quiet as I walked toward the back. My heels tapped against the marble floors. When I opened my office door, I flipped the light switch, and the room came to life.
It was beautiful, elegant, and thoughtfully designed. But it wasn’t the dream.
I ended up working for my dad’s firm when I first started practicing out of convenience, but also out of understanding.
Over the years, motherhood and wife life became my priority, and nobody understood that more than a father who’d spent his whole life trying to make sure his daughter was happy, not just successful.
My dad never pressured me into more hours than I could give or made me choose between the firm and my family.
He wanted to make sure I had room to breathe, room to mother, room to love, and room to choose a life that didn’t feel divided.
And more than anything, he wanted to make sure I was choosing a life that made me feel supported, not stretched thin.
If happiness had a job title in our family, my dad wore it proudly.
He wore it for me first, like any parent should.
My dream had always been to one day open my own firm, maybe even specialize in something outside of real estate. But life has a funny way of connecting the dots for you long before you realize you’re tracing a line.
Kairo stepped into his family’s real estate empire with a future already paved, so it only made sense for me to walk into the same world professionally.
Not because it was the dream, but because it was the logic of our life together.
Becoming a real estate attorney wasn’t the plan at 18, but at 33, it was the bridge meant for our partnership.
It was the specialty that aligned with our marriage, our legacy, and direction.
I really only practiced when I was needed, when I wanted, and when the scale of my life allowed me to pour into something outside of my home.
My dad had already given me the biggest perk of all—choice.
He was the main reason that I pushed Kairo and I to give Kennedi the life that our parents gave us.
The walls of my office held framed memories. Photos of me and Kairo over the years. Graduation. Parenthood. Engagement. Marriage. Growth. All milestones captured in glossy prints.
I walked toward the picture that always made me pause. It was the one taken when Kennedi turned 5. Kairo was kneeling beside her birthday cake, so proud. I was standing behind them, hand resting on his shoulder, so happy. That was also the year he started missing our date nights.
I remembered thinking, It’s a phase. We’re adjusting to his dreams. He’ll come back around.
I should’ve paid closer attention back then, but love had made me patient. Maybe too patient.
My eyes drifted toward our wedding portrait.
We were young parents still in college. Everyone told us to wait until after undergrad, but we didn’t.
We got married anyway, because we thought love was the thing you secure first and everything else would fall in line behind it.
In the photo, I was big and pregnant. I remembered how he used to put Kennedi to bed so we could watch movies together.
The days when desire, attention, and love didn’t have business hours.
I sat down at my desk, tracing a finger along the selfie of us at Kennedi’s cheer competition before picking up my phone.
I dialed his number and ofcourse, no answer. My phone buzzed seconds later.
Kairo: In a meeting. Can I call later? Are you okay?
I typed back, thumb moving gently across the screen.
I’m fine. Just wanted to tell you good morning.
His reply came almost instantly:
Kairo: Meet me home for lunch?