Page 174 of Riot

But not today.

Today, I woke up with a toddler snoring on my chest and a woman curled into my side with my name still soft on her lips. Jasir’s little fist was balled up right under my jaw, his curls wild and tangled like he fought dragons in his sleep. And Allure—my fucking miracle—was still knocked out beside me, hand resting on the place where my child was growing inside her.

My child.

Man, I used to think I didn’t deserve shit but blood and bruises. But here I am. Breathing easier. Not whole, but healing. Trying.

Yesterday, I buried my mother and Madeira.

Carried the caskets with Creed and other family members. Lowered them down with my own hands. Said words I didn’t know I had in me. My mother, flawed as hell, fierce as hell, deserved to go out with dignity. Madeira? She died protectin’ what mattered to me. My aunt was lovely. She was more than a house manager. She was family. I owed her more than flowers.

I still ain’t cried for real. Not since the day I broke down in front Allure. That shit will never happen again. It was like my body put all that grief on layaway. Said, later, nigga. You got shit to do now.

And that’s true. I got Jasir now. A baby who don’t know the world he was born into, who’s seen more in one year than most people do in a lifetime. He needs peace. Love. Stability.

And I got a baby on the way. Mine and Allure’s.

When she told me I was right, that she really was pregnant, I didn’t even feel panic. I felt… clear. Like for the first time, I knew exactly what the fuck I wanted. A family. A future. I didn’t want to kill or hunt or bleed for anything anymore. I just wanted to build.

We got a long road ahead, no doubt. Trauma don’t just disappear. But we both clawed our way out of hell. And we made it to each other.

Now I just gotta stay free long enough to enjoy it.

I pulled myself out of bed quietly, careful not to wake either of them. Made a bottle for Jasir just in case. Threw on some black slacks, a crisp shirt, gold watch. Something about wearing a suit to your mother’s will reading feels biblical. Like you’re walking into a room to receive commandments from the dead.

Creed texted me:

“On the way. You good?”

I stared at the screen for a second.

“Yeah.”

That was all I could say.

We were meeting the lawyer at 9:00am. Some old family friend my mother trusted with her secrets and her money. Mama had a will since we were little. She’s always been meticulous, especially because she couldn’t trust our father.

I looked around the brownstone. Toys scattered. Dishes in the sink. A new bassinet Creed had ordered sitting half-assembled in the corner. This wasn’t the life I expected, but it was the life I wanted. I felt it in my chest. In my bones.

And that scared the fuck outta me.

Because good things don’t stick around long when you come from where I come from. You get five minutes of sunlight, then the storm returns twice as hard. So yeah, I’m happy. But I’m also waiting. For the other shoe. For the next betrayal. For the universe to snatch this joy back like it always does.

But I’ll fight for it this time.

I’ll fight for Allure. For our kid. For Jasir. For myself.

Creed buzzed me from the street. I grabbed my keys, kissed Allure on the forehead, whispered, “I’ll be back,” and walked out to meet him.

We pulled up to a brownstone-turned-law office in Midtown. Quiet. Unassuming. But I felt the weight of it before we even got out the car. Creed killed the engine. Neither of us moved.

“You ready?” he asked.

“No,” I said honestly. “But let’s go.”

The hallway inside smelled like old books and new money. Everything was polished, mahogany trim, stained glass transoms, brass fixtures that didn’t even have fingerprints. This was the kind of office you brought family business to when you didn’t trust family.

The lawyer, an older Black woman named Denise Langston, greeted us with a soft smile and open arms.

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