Page 11 of You Deserve Good Things

I couldn’t sit in my own kitchen without seeing the back of his head—hoodie up, headphones in, noddin’ to some beat only he could hear. His rhythm still lived in the walls, in the worn grooves of the wooden floors, in the laughter that used to bounce off these now hollow spaces.

It was killing me.

“We gotta go,” I finally said, voice low, like if I said it too loud, the house might swallow me whole.

Shari looked up from where she stood, folding clothes she probably didn’t even realize were his. Her hands stilled mid-fold, the shirt hangin’ limp like a flag of surrender. Her shoulders slumped, and for the first time, I saw just how tired she really was.

“Where would we even go?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, already trembling with what she knew was comin’.

I took a slow breath, feelin’ like I was exhaling four days of failure. “You mentioned Houston before,” I reminded her gently. “You said your cousin had something lined up.”

She nodded, slow and heavy, like the movement itself hurt. “There’s a job at the NICU—at Texas Children’s Hospital. They said they’d hold it for me.” She paused, eyes glassy. “There are good schools. Better resources. Things for Shaniya too.”

“And better peace?” I asked, my voice cracking like old wood.

Her lip trembled, and she gave the saddest little smile. “I hope so.”

I glanced over at Shaniya again. Still sittin’ on the couch. Still motionless. Still gone in all the ways that mattered.

“She ain’t gonna make it here,” I said, stepping closer to Shari. “And truth be told . . . I ain’t sure we will either.”

Her eyes flooded, tears spilling silently like rain down a windowpane. No sobs, no wailing. Just the quiet surrender of a woman stretched too thin.

“I’ll find work,” I added, trying to sound like the man I used to be. “I been talking to a firm out there. They said they looking for an architect. I can build again. Maybe even build something for Silas. Something that stands. Something that speaks when we can’t.”

Shari stepped into me, her arms sliding around my waist like she was reaching for the only solid thing left in the world. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close, her headpressing into my chest. For the first time in days, I held her without both of us shattering in the process.

“We’ll go.” I whispered into her hair, squeezing my eyes shut against the sting. “We’ll do this for her. For us. For him.”

The wind picked up outside, rustling the trees like even the sky was restless.

And deep down, I prayed that wherever Silas was . . . he knew we weren’t running away.

We were surviving the only way we knew how—by leaving the shadows and reaching for the light.

Together.

I shoulda felt hope packing those boxes. I shoulda felt strength in moving forward. But all I felt was guilt.

Crushing, suffocating guilt that clung to my skin like the thick New Orleans heat. Every time I folded a shirt, every time I taped a box shut, it felt like I was tryna close the lid on my son’s memory. Like I was erasing him piece by piece.

The photo of Silas holding up his first report card, cheesing like he just won the lottery, a little crooked gap-toothed grin and eyes full of pride. The old PlayStation controller he left under the couch—the same one he used to argue with Jacory and Chase over. I found it covered in dust, sitting there like it was waiting on him to come back and pick it up for just one more game.His chain, the one he swore he’d never take off, laid across his dresser like a whisper. His brush, with tiny curls still trapped in the bristles. His hoodie—faded, worn at the sleeves, still smelling like his favorite cologne and cheap corner store snacks.

It was all still here. And we were leaving him behind.

“What if he comes lookin’ for us, Samuel?” I sobbed one night while stuffing his things in a box labeled “KEEP.” My voice cracked like glass under pressure, my hands shaking so bad I couldn’t even tape the top down. “What if he wakes up and we gone?”

Samuel took the box from my hands, gently, like it held more than just cotton and thread, as if it held a heartbeat. He set it down, slid it aside, and pulled me in close. His arms wrapped around me like a quilt passed down through generations—worn, warm, and strong enough to hold every broken piece of me.

“Baby . . . Silas is already home,” he whispered into my hair, voice thick like molasses, like he was tryin’ not to break right there with me.

I clutched his shirt in two fistfuls, buried my face in his chest, and cried so hard my lungs begged for mercy. My body shook like a tree caught in a hurricane, like grief had rooted itself so deep inside me it was tryna rip me in two.

I screamed into the cotton of his shirt. Sobbed until my knees buckled and my voice turned hoarse. The kind of cry that left your soul sore. That had no words, just raw sound. Just pain.

Because moving didn’t feel like healing. It felt like betrayal. But Samuel held me through it all. He didn’t say nothing else. He didn’t have to.

His silence told me what my spirit needed: that we weren’t leaving Silas behind. We was carrying him with us. In every mile. In every breath. In every box labeled “KEEP.”

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