CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
NAE
Malik came to my apartment Saturday with his mother and no car seat.
I saw both of them through the peephole.
Amir was on the floor behind me lining toy cars along the edge of the rug. He heard his father’s voice in the hallway and jumped up.
“Daddy!”
That one word made every boundary harder.
I opened the door but kept the chain latched.
Malik looked at it and laughed. “You serious?”
“Why are you here?”
“To get my son.”
His mother, Ms. Yvette, stood behind him holding a juice box and a shopping bag like this was a regular pickup.
“You didn’t ask to get him today.”
“I damn sure don’t have to ask for my own child.”
“You do when he lives with me and we don’t have a schedule.”
Amir pushed against my leg. “Daddy, come in.”
Malik bent enough to see him through the opening. “What’s up, little man? Go get your shoes.”
“No,” I said.
Amir looked up at me, confused.
Malik’s face hardened. “Don’t do this in front of him.”
“You came here without telling me. Where’s the car seat?”
He glanced toward the stairs. “In the car.”
“Which car? Yours not outside.”
Ms. Yvette spoke for the first time. “Mine is downstairs. I have one at the house.”
“Is it in the car right now?”
She pressed her lips together.
“Then, he’s not leaving.”
Malik stepped closer to the door. “You trying to prove something because the internet got you embarrassed.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket and started recording without hiding it. “I’m trying to make sure Amir travels safely and knows where he’s sleeping tonight. What time were you bringing him back?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“Why you recording?”
“Because talking between us hasn’t worked.”
His eyes dropped to the phone.
“See, Ma? This what I’m talking about. She got all them girls in her ear. One stealing men, one talking behind everybody back and, now, she acting like I’m dangerous.”
“My friends have nothing to do with your car seat.”
“They got everything to do with how unstable you been all week. Taking trip money from people, crying online—”
“I have not cried online.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. Explain it for the recording.”
His mother touched his arm. “Malik, let’s go get the seat and come back.”
“No. She wants court? We can do court. I’m taking my son.”
He reached toward the chain.
I shut the door.
Malik knocked hard enough to shake it.
Amir started crying. “Daddy!”
I lifted him and carried him away from the door while Malik called my name in the hallway.
“You can’t keep him from me!”
I did not answer through the wood.
I called the police non-emergency number and explained that my child’s father was outside trying to force an unplanned pickup. Before an officer arrived, Ms. Yvette convinced him to leave.
The hallway went quiet.
Amir kept crying. “Daddy mad?”
“Daddy’s not mad at you.”
“Daddy come back?”
“Another day. When Mama and Daddy plan it.”
He laid his head on my shoulder and sniffled.
There was no version where protecting him kept him from feeling everything. That hurt more than Malik’s threats.
At ten, I took Amir to my mother’s house and went to the legal-aid clinic alone. The waiting room was full of people carrying folders like mine. A woman across from me had three children and a trash bag of paperwork. A man near the window bounced a baby while filling out forms on his knee.
For years, court had sounded like failure.
Sitting there, it looked like people admitting private arrangements were no longer enough.
The attorney asked about income, daycare, insurance, overnight visits, and Malik’s contributions.
“How much does he pay monthly?” she asked.
“There isn’t a set amount.”
“Average over the last six months?”
I opened the payment history.
“Maybe one hundred and thirty a month. Some months nothing.”
“How many overnights?”
“None in the last four months. Before that, one or two.”
“Any safety concerns?”
“He doesn’t always use a car seat. His mother smokes inside. He has never hit Amir. He doesn’t hit me. He gets loud.”
She wrote without reacting.
“What are you asking the court for?”
I had spent so much time thinking about what Malik failed to do that I had not put my own request into a sentence.
“A schedule,” I said. “Support that comes the same time every month. No pickups unless we agree. A car seat every time. I want Amir to see his father. I just don’t want everything decided by who is mad that day.”
The attorney nodded. “That’s reasonable.”
I almost cried over the word reasonable.
She helped me begin the forms for child support and a parenting-time order. A court date would come by mail after Malik was served.
When I picked Amir up, my mother handed me the dinosaur Ari had returned through her.
“She said this belongs to him.”
I held the toy. “She came here?”
“Dropped it off before work. Didn’t stay.”
Amir grabbed the dinosaur and hugged it. “Ari give back.”
“Yeah.”
My mother looked at me. “Give her time.”
“Everybody keeps telling me what to give her.”
“Because you want to fix it before she decides whether she still wants it.”
At home, I locked my social pages and deleted Malik’s comment without replying. Then, I added the video from the hallway to the court folder.
Sunday morning, an email confirmed my case had been opened.
Tuesday, Malik texted a screenshot of the notice.
MALIK: You really filed on me.
ME: Yes.
MALIK: After everything I did for you.
I looked around my apartment.
No television.
Cracked toy bin.
Daycare receipt on the counter.
ME: This is for Amir. We can speak through writing until court.
He called four times.
I did not answer.