Chapter Thirty-Two Xalori Carson
There was something almost sacred about folding tiny onesies and lining up pacifiers like armor.
The baby wasn’t here yet, but I needed this.
Needed something to control. Something to soothe the ache and calm the chaos that’d been clawing at my chest since I got released from that damn hospital.
“Hand me that blanket, baby,” I said, nodding toward the folded stack by the crib.
Nasir, serious as ever, picked it up like it was gold and passed it to me gently, while Ginger hummed beside us, trying to stuff a plush giraffe into the diaper caddy like it was mission critical.
We weren’t just decorating a room. We were reclaiming something.
Joy.
Safety.
A fresh start.
And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid of that. I was building a world where my babies could breathe. Even if I had to destroy everything that threatened it.
Even though this wasn’t my first rodeo, I still had all the same jitters as a first-time mom.
But this time, they cut deeper. Every drawer I organized, every onesie I folded, every corner I adjusted in that damn crib came with a knot in my chest I couldn’t untangle.
I was so focused on making sure everything was perfect—sterilized, secured, safe—that I’m pretty sure I was driving Eason and the kids up the damn wall.
I knew you couldn’t really prevent SIDS. But after Aaliyah, I didn’t want to hear another monitor fall silent in the middle of the night. I didn’t want to wake up to stillness, to grief, or to the kind of silence that haunts your soul. I’d rather die first.
“Mommy,” Nasir’s voice was soft behind me, tugging me out of my spiral. I turned around from where I was adjusting the crib rail.
He was standing there with a blanket balled in his arms, his little brow furrowed like he was trying to work something out in that big heart of his.
“Yeah, baby?”
He shuffled closer, glanced at the crib, then up at me with eyes too grown for his age. “If the baby stops breathing… like Aaliyah did… will they go to heaven too?”
The breath whooshed out of me like he’d knocked it straight from my chest.
I blinked and swallowed as I tried not to crumble. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He wasn’t being morbid. He was trying to understand death the only way a little boy who watched his baby sister die could.
I knelt down in front of him, holding his face between my hands. “Hey,” I whispered, my voice thick. “No one’s going anywhere, okay? Not this baby. Not you. Not Ginger. Mommy and Daddy got you. We’re keeping you safe.”
His eyes searched mine. “But what if it happens anyway?”
I choked on a sob and kissed his forehead. “Then yes, baby. If something ever happened, they’d go to heaven. Just like Aaliyah.”
He nodded, accepting that. Then whispered, “I don’t want them to. I don’t want you to cry like that again.”
“I won’t,” I promised, even though my voice cracked around the lie. “I’m gonna fight every second to make sure I never have to.”
He hugged me hard, and I squeezed him back just as tight. Ginger toddled over a second later, flopping onto my lap like she could feel the sadness in the air and needed to fix it. And maybe she did.
But in that moment, with both of them wrapped around me, their little hearts beating against mine, I remembered that I wasn’t just preparing a nursery. I was protecting a legacy, a promise, a future. And I’d die before I let anything take that away from me again.
I sat on the nursery floor with Nasir curled up against me, Ginger tucked under my arm, her curls brushing my chin. The air was thick with the unspoken, questions that didn’t have clean answers, fears I couldn’t completely protect them from. But I could try.
“Come here,” I murmured to Nasir, tugging him gently into my lap. He went without protest, quiet and thoughtful as his little fingers played with the hem of my shirt.
“I know you’re scared, baby,” I whispered, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “I get scared too. Every time this baby kicks, I feel a little joy and a little fear. That’s what grief does. It makes you scared to love again… because you don’t wanna lose again.”
He looked up at me, wide-eyed. “Is that why you cry sometimes when you look at the baby stuff?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, letting the truth roll off my tongue soft and slow.
“Because your sister was here one day and gone the next. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
I didn’t get to hear her laugh one more time.
And now every happy thing feels like it’s got a shadow following it.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy to have you and Ginger.
Or this baby. It just means I miss your sister too. ”
He was quiet for a second, chewing on the corner of his lip like he was still trying to piece it together. Then he shifted forward and pressed both hands to my stomach, resting his little cheek right above my belly button.
“I think Aaliyah already knows you love her,” he said quietly. “But this baby don’t. So you gotta love them too. Even if you’re scared.”
Tears stung my eyes. I cupped the back of his head and held on.
He kissed my belly once, soft and clumsy. “You’re still a good mommy,” he whispered.
And just like that, something cracked open inside me.
I wrapped both my babies in my arms and rocked us, the way I used to rock Aaliyah when she was tiny and new and still here. Ginger giggled and kicked, Nasir leaned into me, and in that one small, impossible moment I didn’t feel broken. I felt whole.
Maybe not forever, but for right now that was enough.
I stayed there on the nursery floor for a long moment, holding Nasir with one arm and Ginger with the other, my belly nestled between them like we were building a fortress of flesh and love.
The kind you don’t walk away from. The kind you fight for. The kind that don’t break easy, no matter how many storms hit the roof.
“This baby’s lucky,” Nasir murmured after a while, his cheek resting against my shoulder. “They get to have all of us from the beginning.”
I blinked fast, my throat too tight to respond right away.
Yeah. They were lucky. But I was too. And that was the part I was still learning how to say out loud without feeling like I was betraying what I’d lost.
“I hope she’s a girl,” Ginger added, completely unaware of how heavy the air had gotten. “So, I can brush her hair and tell her not to touch my toys.”
I laughed, soft and watery, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand. “That’s very generous of you.”
By the time Eason walked in, the nursery was filled with soft laughter and the sound of Ginger and Nasir arguing over who was better at singing lullabies.
His dark eyes found mine over their heads. And I knew he saw the shift, the slow rebuild, and the quiet strength rising back up in me piece by piece.
He didn’t say a word at first, just watched and soaked me in. That kind of looking only a man does when he knows what he almost lost.
“Need help?” He asked eventually, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, voice low and amused.
I smirked. “Only if you’re volunteering to fold baby clothes.”
He grimaced like I’d asked him to walk barefoot through hell. “Aight, I take it back.”
“Mmhm. That’s what I thought.”
The kids ran to him like magnets, both yelling “Daddy!” like they were in a competition.
He scooped them up in one arm like it was easy, like they were weightless and so was the world. And maybe it was, just for a minute.
I sat there in the nursery we’d built, surrounded by soft things and second chances, and realized something I hadn’t dared to admit before now. I wasn’t just preparing for a new baby; I was preparing to be whole again. And this time, I wasn’t doing it alone.
Later that night, once the kids were asleep and the house had settled into that sweet silence that only came when everyone was safe and tired, I sat on the edge of the nursery rocker and just breathed.
The flower Ginger gave me still sat on the dresser. A fake flower. Plastic petals. No scent, no roots. But the meaning behind it ran deep.
I traced the curve of my belly with both hands, whispering something I hadn’t said since Aaliyah passed. Not out loud. Not even to myself.
“I’m not afraid of loving you.”
The baby kicked in response—strong and sure, like they heard me and believed me.
I looked around the nursery at the soft golden lighting, the shelves stacked with diapers and books, the framed drawings Nasir made, and the lavender unicorn Ginger insisted, had to guard the crib.
And it hit me again, this wasn’t just a nursery. This was proof. Proof that I could love again. That I could keep going. That I could rebuild.
I was still scared. Still unsure sometimes. Still grieving. But I wasn’t broken anymore.
The door creaked open softly, and Eason stepped in, shirtless and fresh from the shower, towel slung low on his hips like he had no intentions of letting me sleep tonight. But when his eyes found mine, he didn’t smirk or flirt.
He just stared at me like I was the only thing he ever got right.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low, careful.
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think I am.”
Eason moved behind me, his big hands sliding gently over my shoulders as he kissed the side of my head. “You looked like you was talkin’ to her,” he murmured. “Aaliyah.”
“I was.”
He nodded like he understood. Because he did. Because he always did.
“She say anything back?” he asked.
I leaned into his touch. “She told me to stop being scared.”
Eason dropped his head to my shoulder, wrapped his arms around me from behind, and held me like he knew I needed it.
“She right,” he whispered. “You ain’t got to be scared no more. Not with me. Not with us.”
Tears welled in my eyes again but this time, they didn’t fall, I held them back. Because I believed him.
We sat there in the dark nursery, our babies sleeping down the hall, another heartbeat growing beneath my ribs, and I realized I didn’t need everything to be perfect.
I just needed this. My family. My peace. My new beginning.
And that was more than enough.