Page 128 of My Only

I didn’t want to be here. Not for this.

Hours earlier, I saw Ayla for the first time since she told me she wanted a divorce. Two days. That’s how long she’d been locking me out—sleeping in the guest room, avoiding conversation. This morning was the first time we’d touched, and even though we’d hooked up in the kitchen…

Something was off.

I knew it. She knew it. And I still couldn’t make sense of it.

With a deep sigh, I stared up at the bakery’s awning before stepping out of my car. I wasn’t here for the food, or even to check in on my mom.

I was here for my father.

After 9/11, when most of his colleagues never made it home, my dad never went back to work anywhere else. He’d grieved in his own way, pouring himself into the bakery alongside my mother. He never left. And I never forgot.

That day changed everything for both of us.

One of the colleagues he lost was Ayla’s father.

And the little girl that colleague left behind? The one who used to call my house at one in the morning just to cry into the phone?

She became mine.

I shook my head, forcing myself back to the present. I didn’t have time to get lost in the past. I had to be in Manhattan in an hour. I was already late. But at that moment, nothing mattered except getting the advice I came here for.

I pushed open the glass door, immediately met with the warm, sweet aroma of baking bread and fresh patties.

“Morning, Hassani!” Mrs. Douglas, one of the bakery’s regulars, greeted from the counter.

The other patrons present also greeted me in waves.

I lifted my hand in a wave. “Mornin’, y’all.”

The moment my mother spotted me from behind the register, her face lit up. She moved from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling me into a hug that made me bend my knees just to fit.

“What a sweet surprise,” she smiled brightly, stepping back to scan me head to toe—a habit she’s never grown out of. “But bwoy… you look run down.”

I snorted a laugh. “Thanks, Ma.”

“Nah, man, I’m serious,” she said, hazel-green eyes narrowing with concern. “You look tired.”

I exhaled. “I really am.”

She studied me for a second longer, then tapped my shoulder. “You’re working too hard, Hassani.” Then, tilting her head slightly to see around me, she asked, “Where’s my daughter?”

The mention of Ayla twisted something inside me, but I kept my expression neutral.

“She’s home, resting,” I said, scratching the back of my head. “I’m heading into the city soon, but I need to talk to Dad real quick.”

“He’s back there,” she said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Go see him, and I’ll have some fresh spice buns waiting when you get back. Don’t forget to carry some home to Ayla.”

“Aight.” I forced a smile. “Sounds good, Ma.”

She gave me that mom-look, the one that meant she wasn’t buying it. “You sure you’re all right?”

Not in the least.

“I’m good, Ma. I’m good.” I pointed over her shoulder. “I’m gonna go talk to Dad.”

“Go ‘head.” She squeezed my arm once before turning back to the counter.

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