17. KAISEN #4
We moved to the toy section, and I picked out soft plush animals, rattles, and teething rings. A mobile with stars and moons that played lullabies.
Everything my child would need.
Everything they deserved.
“Diapers and wipes?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Bottles?”
“Yes.”
“Formula? Or is mom planning to breastfeed?”
I hesitated. I didn’t know. Truth and I hadn’t talked about any of this.
“Both,” I said finally. “Just in case.”
She nodded and added it to the list.
By the time we reached the checkout counter, I’d spent over an hour in the store and accumulated enough items to fill an entire nursery.
The total came to just over eight thousand dollars.
I handed over my credit card without hesitation.
“Would you like us to deliver and assemble everything?” she asked.
“No. I’ll do it myself.”
She looked surprised but nodded. “Alright. Let me get some help loading your truck.”
It took three employees and twenty minutes to load everything. The crib box barely fit, and I had to fold down the back seats to make room for the dresser and changing table.
But I didn’t care.
This was mine.
This was real.
I drove home with the windows down, the late afternoon sun warming my face, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something other than rage or desperation.
I felt purpose.
My house was quiet when I arrived. I lived alone in a modern two-story in Lakeview—clean lines, open floor plan, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water.
It was a bachelor’s house. Sleek and minimalist and empty.
But not for long.
I parked in the driveway and started unloading. My side screamed in protest with every box I lifted, but I ignored it.
Pain was temporary.
This—this was forever.
I carried everything inside, stacking boxes in the hallway outside the guest bedroom on the second floor. The room was small but bright, with large windows that let in natural light and a view of the oak trees in the backyard.
Perfect.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, envisioning what it would look like. The crib against the far wall. The dresser next to the window. The changing table in the corner.
My child’s room.
My child’s home.
I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
Assembling the crib took over an hour. The instructions were detailed but confusing, and I had to backtrack twice when I realized I’d put pieces in the wrong order.
But I didn’t stop.
I tightened every screw. Checked every joint. Made sure the mattress support was secure and level.
This crib was going to hold my child. It had to be perfect.
When I finally stepped back and looked at the finished product, I beamed with pride.
It was real.
Solid. Sturdy. Safe.
I moved on to the dresser next, assembling it piece by piece, my hands moving with methodical precision. The drawers slid smoothly on their tracks. The changing topper fit perfectly on top.
I filled the drawers with the clothes I’d bought—tiny onesies folded neatly, soft sleepers stacked by size, socks so small they looked like doll clothes.
I hung the mobile above the crib and wound it up, watching the stars and moons spin slowly as the lullaby played.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star…
My throat tightened.
I placed the plush animals on the dresser—a gray elephant, a white bunny, a soft giraffe. I arranged the diapers and wipes on the changing table. I folded the blankets and placed them in a wicker basket next to the crib.
Everything had a place.
Everything was ready.
I stood in the center of the room, my hands on my hips, and looked around.
This was it.
This was my child’s nursery.
And it was perfect.
I sank onto the floor, my back against the wall, and stared at the crib.
My side ached. My hands were sore from assembling furniture. My body was exhausted.
But my mind—my mind was clear.
This was mine.
Not Amai’s. Not Winston’s.
Mine.
I thought about Truth—about the way she’d looked at me when I told her the truth. The anger. The hurt. The betrayal.
But also the acknowledgment.
She’d seen me.
Not as Amai’s brother or Winston’s disappointment.
Just as Kaisen.
A man trying to be better than the legacy he’d been born into.
And this—this nursery—was proof.
Proof that I could build something. Create something. Be something.
For my child.
I pulled out my phone and opened the photo app, snapping pictures of the room. The crib. The dresser. The mobile spinning slowly above.
I wanted to send them to Truth.
Wanted to show her that I was serious. That I was ready.
But I stopped myself.
Not yet.
She needed time. Space. Answers.
And I needed to prove—through actions, not words—that I was the man she and our child deserved.
I pocketed my phone and pushed myself to my feet, wincing as my side protested.
The nursery was done.
But this was just the beginning.
Because I wasn’t going to let Amai take this from me.
I wasn’t going to let Winston control this.
And I sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone convince me that this baby wasn’t mine.
I knew the truth.
I felt it in my bones.
And I was going to fight for it.
For Truth.
For my child.
For the family I’d never had but was determined to build.
No matter what it cost me.