CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NAE
Amir had climbed into my bed sometime after two with his dinosaur tucked under one arm and one cold foot pressed against my stomach. I laid beside him in the dark refreshing my banking app like I could make payroll move faster by staring at it.
It was the biggest deposit I had seen in months and almost none of it belonged to me.
I transferred two hundred to Jori first.
ME: Paying you back. Thank you.
Then forty-five to Ari.
ME: This is the money you sent Saturday. I put the full $720 back in the trip account too.
Her name showed that she read it.
No answer came.
I opened the group Cash App and replaced the seven hundred and twenty dollars I had taken. Then, I paid the remaining three hundred and eighty-two on rent before my landlord could tape another notice to my door.
By the time I finished, I had one hundred and forty-nine dollars and eighteen cents left.
Daycare was paid through next Friday. My refrigerator had food. My lights were on.
That had to count as stability, even if it fit inside one screen.
Amir rolled onto his back and kicked the blanket off.
“Mama work?”
“Later.”
“No work.”
“That’s a beautiful idea. You paying rent?”
His eyes stayed closed. “No rent.”
“Exactly.”
He reached for me without waking all the way. I let him curl against my side and rested my chin on his hair.
I had spent the whole week trying to repair numbers.
Money returned.
Balance covered.
Reservation saved.
None of it put me back where I had been with Ari.
At seven thirty, I dropped Amir at daycare. Ms. Carla, the director, asked me to step into her office before I left.
My first thought was that another payment had failed.
My second was that Malik had called.
Both made my stomach tighten.
“Everything’s good with your account,” she said before I sat down. “This is about yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?”
“Amir’s father came around four and tried to pick him up.”
I stared at her. “Malik?”
“He had identification, and he is listed in Amir’s file, but he didn’t know the pickup code. When we called you, it went to voicemail.”
I pulled my phone from my purse. Three missed calls from an unfamiliar number sat between work texts and spam.
“I was on the floor. We’re not allowed to have our phones.”
“We didn’t release Amir. Malik became upset, but he left.”
“Upset how?”
Ms. Carla folded her hands. “He raised his voice. Said he was Amir’s father and we couldn’t keep his son from him. No threats. No physical behavior. We documented it.”
Shame rose hot under my skin, even though I had not caused the scene.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for him. I need to know what the custody arrangement is.”
“There isn’t one. We do things between us.”
“Then, I strongly suggest you put something formal in place,” she said. “Until then, we can follow the authorized pickup list and code, but we need clear instructions from you.”
“Take him off the list.”
She paused. “I can do that. I also need you to understand that without a court order, family disputes can get complicated.”
“He doesn’t even have a car seat half the time. He can’t just show up when he feels like being a father.”
My voice sharpened.
Ms. Carla did not flinch.
“That’s why you need paperwork that does not depend on how either of you feels that day.”
She slid a card across the desk for a family-law clinic in Camden.
I almost told her I didn’t need it. I put the card in my wallet.
“Thank you.”
In the parking lot, I called Malik. He sent me to voicemail.
I did not leave a message. I typed instead, so the words would stay where I could find them later.
ME: Daycare told me you came yesterday. You cannot pick Amir up without arranging it with me first. You are removed from the pickup list for now. We need a written schedule.
His response came before I reached my car.
MALIK: You can’t keep my son from me.
ME: I’m not. I asked you Tuesday if you could keep him this weekend and you said you were busy. Showing up at daycare without a car seat or telling me is not a schedule.
MALIK: Who said I ain’t have a car seat?
ME: Did you?
The typing dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.
MALIK: Stop trying to make me look deadbeat because your little friends got you mad.
I stared at the message.
He knew something had happened.
Either somebody had told him or the birthday pictures and silent group chat had traveled through family faster than I thought.
ME: This isn’t about my friends. This is about Amir.
MALIK: Everything with you is always an emergency.
I locked my phone.
At lunch, I called the number on the legal-aid card. A woman took my information and scheduled an intake for Saturday morning. She told me to bring pay stubs, daycare receipts, Malik’s payment history, and every message showing missed visits or arguments over money.
I had all of it.
Years of disappointment became evidence when somebody told you what folder to put it in.
After work, I picked Amir up and drove to Jori’s house. She was waiting on the porch in scrubs, her backpack by her feet.
I held out two hundred dollars in cash, even though I had already sent it electronically.
She looked at the bills. “What is that?”
“I sent your money. This is in case you don’t believe Cash App.”
“I believe Cash App. Put that away.”
I shoved it back into my purse, embarrassed by my own performance. “Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
We stood there with too much between those two sentences.
Amir pressed both hands against his window and yelled, “Jori!”
She waved at him.
“How’s school?” I asked.
“Exam Monday.”
“You ready?”
“More than I was.”
I nodded. “Good.”
She shifted her backpack higher. “You paid everything back?”
“All of it. Rent too. I got a hundred forty-nine dollars to my name, but nobody can say I kept their money.”
“I never thought you planned to keep it.”
“You thought I made motherhood everybody’s emergency.”
Her face changed.
“You heard the note?”
“No. Kye told me what you said when she called to explain why some anonymous account might have it.”
Jori looked toward the street. “It was ugly,” she said. “I was angry and tired.”
“Were you lying?”
“No. I was saying the meanest version of something real.”
That hurt more than an easy apology would have.
“I don’t fucking know what to do with that yet.”
“You don’t have to do anything today.”
I almost laughed.
Jori could make even an apology sound like she was giving discharge instructions.
“You know what hurt?” I asked. “Not that you think I need help. I do. It was you talking like Amir and everything that comes with him is some mess I drop at y’all feet.”
“That’s not how I feel about him.”
“Then, you should’ve kept his name out your frustration.”
Her mouth tightened. “You’re right.”
No speech followed.
No hug.
When I got home, Amir ate chicken nuggets at the coffee table while I made a folder labeled FAMILY COURT in black marker.
Pay stubs.
Daycare notices.
Screenshots.
A calendar with every visit Malik missed in the last six months.
At eight forty-six, my phone started vibrating so hard against the table that Amir covered his ears.
“Loud phone.”
“I see it.”
Nine messages arrived in less than a minute.
My cousin sent the first link.
Then, a coworker.
Then Malik.
The post came from a local gossip page called JERSEY AFTER DARK.
The picture was Ari at her birthday dinner, smiling beneath the flower wall. Across the bottom, somebody had written:
WHEN THE DAY ONES HATE YOU IN PRIVATE.
A voice recording sat beneath it.
Jori’s voice filled my living room before I could lower the volume.
“Nae keeps making motherhood everybody’s emergency after she already decided what she’s gonna do...”
The clip jumped.
“Ari’s entire life is a crisis if a picture looks wrong...”
Another cut.
“Kye turns everything into a joke until somebody gets hurt...”
Comments multiplied beneath it while I watched.
Fake friends.
This why I don’t trust females.
The baby mama friend always broke.
Ari pretty but she do look exhausting.
Somebody tagged Malik.
He had already commented.
MALIKHARRIS_: Been telling people I’m the only stable parent.
My hands shook so hard, I nearly dropped the phone.
I reported the post.
Then, I screenshot everything.
Embarrassment was not the same thing as being powerless.