15. TRUTH
TRUTH
Iwoke up to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and my phone buzzing on the nightstand.
I’m not going anywhere.
I reached for my phone, squinting against the brightness of the screen.
Two text messages from Amai. Sent at 7:14 AM.
Check your account.
Rest. We try again in six weeks.
I stared at the messages, my brain still foggy with sleep and exhaustion. Check my account?
Then it hit me.
My bank account.
I sat up too fast, my head spinning. Opened my banking app with shaking hands and waited for it to load. The screen flickered. Then the numbers appeared.
Available Balance: $98,047.23
I stopped breathing.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Fifty thousand dollars that wasn’t supposed to be there. That I hadn’t earned. That the contract explicitly said I wouldn’t get unless the pregnancy was confirmed.
The transfer had failed.
I wasn’t pregnant.
And Amai had paid me anyway.
My vision blurred. I blinked hard, trying to clear it, but the tears came anyway—hot and fast and completely different from the ones I’d cried last night. These weren’t tears of despair or fear or failure.
These were something else entirely.
Something I didn’t have a name for.
I stared at the number on my screen until it stopped making sense. Until it was just digits and symbols that represented something I couldn’t quite process. Then I looked back at Amai’s messages.
Check your account.
Rest. We try again in six weeks.
Simple. Direct. No explanation. No apology. Just action.
Just him keeping his word in the only way that mattered.
My hands were still shaking when I typed out a response.
You didn’t have to do this.
I hit send before I could second-guess it. Watched the message turn from gray to blue, delivered and read almost immediately.
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then his response came through.
Yes, I did.
I read it three times.
Four.
Five.
Yes, I did.
Not I wanted to. Not you deserve it. Just a simple statement of fact. Like there had never been any other option. Like paying me fifty thousand dollars for a failed transfer was the most logical thing in the world.
I pressed my phone against my chest and closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Trying to understand what this meant. What he meant.
Because this wasn’t just about money.
This was about trust. About commitment. About a man who’d stayed on the phone with me for forty-five minutes in the middle of the night and then woke up at dawn to make sure I knew he wasn’t walking away.
I opened my eyes and looked at my phone again.
Typed slowly, carefully.
Thank you.
His response came back almost immediately.
Six weeks. Then we try again.
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me.
Six weeks.
I could do six weeks.
I’d already survived worse.
Three days after the money hit my account, I sat at Mama’s kitchen table with a legal pad and a calculator.
The $50,000 felt surreal—more money than I’d ever had at one time in my life.
But I’d learned the hard way that money disappeared fast if you didn’t have a plan.
I’d barely touched the other 50K Amai gave me.
I wrote down the numbers in neat columns, the way I’d learned from watching day trading tutorials on YouTube. Income. Expenses. Priorities.
First priority: Phillip’s debt.
He’d left me with $8,347 in credit card bills—charges he’d racked up in my name during the last six months of our marriage while he was planning his exit.
My lawyer said I could fight it, but fighting cost money I didn’t have.
So, I’d been making minimum payments and watching the interest compound like a slow-motion car crash.
I logged into the credit card portal and stared at the balance for a long moment. Then I transferred the full amount and hit submit.
The confirmation screen loaded.
Payment received. Current balance: $0.00.
I sat back in my chair and exhaled hard. Something in my chest that had been clenched tight for months finally loosened. I wasn’t carrying Phillip’s debt anymore. Wasn’t tied to him through bills and late payment notices and collection calls.
I was free.
Second priority: Mama.
She owned the house outright—had paid it off in 2014 after working doubles at the hospital for twenty years. But property taxes, insurance, utilities, and repairs added up. She’d never ask for help, but I’d seen the past-due notices stacked on the counter next to the coffee pot.
I did the math. Six months of expenses came to $4,200. I wrote a check, tucked it into an envelope, and left it on her nightstand while she was at the store.
When she found it later that evening, she came into my room without knocking.
“Baby,” she said, holding the envelope. “What is this?”
“Rent,” I said, not looking up from my laptop where I was researching used cars. “Six months in advance.”
“Truth.”
“Mama.” I turned to face her. “You let me move back in when I had nothing. You fed me. You didn’t ask questions. Let me do this.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes wet. Then she nodded once, folded the envelope, and tucked it into her bra.
“You’re a good girl,” she said quietly. “Don’t let nobody tell you different.”
She left before I could respond.
Third priority: transportation.
I spent two days scrolling through Craigslist and Facebook Marketplace, looking for something reliable that wouldn’t drain my savings. I didn’t need fancy. I needed dependable. Something that would start every morning and get me where I needed to go without breaking down on the side of I-10.
I found a 2012 Honda Civic with 87,000 miles listed for $6,500. The photos showed a car that was clean but lived-in—a few scratches on the bumper, interior worn but not trashed. I called the number and arranged to meet the seller at a gas station in Metairie.
Saroya came with me because she didn’t trust Craigslist and had pepper spray in her purse.
The seller was a middle-aged white woman named Linda who worked as a nurse at Ochsner. She’d bought a new car and was selling this one to her daughter, but her daughter had just moved to Atlanta for a job.
“It’s been a good car,” Linda said, handing me the keys. “Oil changes every 3,000 miles. No accidents. Just regular wear and tear.”
I test drove it around the block. The engine was smooth, the brakes were good, and the AC worked. When I pulled back into the gas station, Saroya was leaning against her car with her arms crossed, watching Linda like a hawk.
“How much you willing to take?” I asked.
“$6,500 is firm,” Linda said. “I know what it’s worth.”
I respected that. I pulled out my phone and transferred the money through Zelle. Linda signed over the title, shook my hand, and wished me luck.
I drove home in my own car for the first time in months. Saroya followed me the whole way, honking twice when we pulled onto my street.
Mama came out onto the porch when she heard us pull up.
“That yours?” she called out.
“Yeah, Mama,” I said, climbing out. “It’s mine.”
She nodded slowly, her face unreadable. Then she smiled—small, but real.
“Good,” she said. “Real good.”
The texts started two days after the failed transfer.
My phone buzzed while I was sitting on the porch with Mama, watching the neighborhood kids play in the street.
How are you feeling?
I stared at the message. It was from Amai. Short. Direct. No preamble.
I typed back: Better. Still cramping a little but it’s manageable.
His response came thirty seconds later.
You need anything?
I hesitated. Then, No. I’m good.
Okay.
That was it. No follow-up. No small talk. Just checking in.
The next text came three days later while I was at the grocery store.
You eating enough?
I smiled despite myself and typed back: Yes, Amai. I’m eating.
Good.
Then, a week later, while I was sitting in my car outside Saroya’s house. You need anything?
I’m fine. Thank you for asking.
Okay.
It became a pattern. Every few days, a text. Always short. Always checking. Never intrusive, but consistent in a way that made me realize he was thinking about me even when we weren’t in the same room.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
Two weeks after the failed transfer, I was sitting at Mama’s kitchen table day trading when Saroya showed up unannounced with beignets from Café Du Monde.
“You’ve been holed up in this house for days,” she said, dropping the bag on the table. “I’m staging an intervention.”
“I’m working,” I replied, not looking up from my screen.
“You’re staring at numbers and ignoring your family.” She pulled out a chair and sat down. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m just?—”
My phone buzzed on the table.
Saroya’s eyes flicked to the screen. Then back to me.
“Who keeps texting you?” she asked.
I picked up the phone and read the message. How are you feeling?
“Amai,” I said, typing back a quick response.
Saroya leaned forward, grinning. “Amai? The baby daddy Amai?”
“He’s not the baby daddy. He’s—” I stopped. “It’s complicated.”
“Mm-hmm.” She was watching me now, her expression knowing. “He got you smiling like that.”
I looked up. “Like what?”
“Like you’re happy to hear from him.”
I opened my mouth to argue. Then closed it. Because she was right. I was happy to hear from him. I looked forward to the texts. To the simple check-ins that said I’m thinking about you without actually saying it.
“It’s not like that,” I finally said.
“Sure, it’s not.” Saroya reached for a beignet. “Just don’t catch feelings for a man who’s paying you to carry his baby. That’s messy as hell.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what this was or what it was becoming. I just knew that Amai Landry had become part of my daily life in a way I hadn’t expected. And I didn’t know how to stop it.
The weeks passed in a strange, suspended rhythm.
I day traded in the mornings and made small gains that added up over time.
I drove my Honda to the grocery store, to Saroya’s house, to Honor’s place in the Ninth Ward.
I cooked dinner with Mama and sat on the porch in the evenings, watching the neighborhood move around us.
And every few days, my phone would buzz.
How are you feeling?
You eating enough?
You need anything?
I started responding faster. Started looking forward to the texts. Started wondering what he was doing when he sent them—if he was at his jewelry shop, or in his car, or sitting in that big house in the Garden District thinking about me the way I was thinking about him.
I told myself it didn’t mean anything.
Told myself it was just him being responsible. Making sure his investment was protected.
But late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d scroll back through the messages and wonder if maybe—just maybe—it meant something more.
My phone rang while I was folding laundry in my room.
Dr. Beaumont’s name flashed on the screen.
I answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Truth.” Her voice was warm, professional. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” I said. “Really good, actually.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” I could hear her smiling through the phone. “Your body’s had time to recover. Hormone levels are back to baseline. Everything looks great.”
I sat on the edge of my bed, my heart picking up speed.
“So,” Dr. Beaumont continued. “Ready for round two?”
I took a breath. Thought about the money I’d used to rebuild my life. About the car in the driveway and the zero balance on my credit card statement. About the texts from Amai that had become as routine as my morning coffee.
About the hope that had quietly taken root in my chest when I wasn’t looking.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m ready.”
“Perfect.” Dr. Beaumont’s voice was steady, reassuring. “When the six weeks are up, we’ll try again. I’ll have my office call you to schedule the prep appointments.”
“Okay.”
“Truth?”
“Yeah?”
“This time is going to be different,” she said. “I can feel it.”
I wanted to believe her. Wanted to let myself hope without the fear of falling again.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“See you soon.”
The line went dead.
I sat there for a long moment, phone in my hand, staring at the pile of unfolded laundry on my bed. My life looked different than it had six weeks ago. I had a car. I had savings. I had a plan. I had something that felt dangerously close to stability.
And I had Amai Landry checking on me like I mattered.
Like I was more than just a contract.
Like I was part of his life now, whether either of us had planned for it or not.
I picked up my phone and opened our text thread. Stared at his last message from this morning. You need anything?
I typed: Dr. Beaumont called. We’re doing the transfer again when the six weeks are up.
His response came almost immediately.
Good. I’ll be there.
I smiled.
Put the phone down.
And went back to folding laundry, feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Hope.