Page 72 of Rose
Her body stopped before her mind did. She doubled over, sobbing in the middle of the sidewalk, lungs heaving with pain she couldn't breathe through. It was still early—no one was around to see her break. Ace curled at her feet, nuzzling her leg as if to absorb some of her hurt, a silent protector in her storm.
“You said you wasn’t gonna leave me, baby,” she whispered through trembling lips, voice cracking as the weight of her reality crushed her.
She closed her eyes, begging for him. For even a trace of him. For his voice. His arms. His peace.
But there was only wind.
And the sound of her heart breaking all over again.
Like a wave crashing and receding all at once, numbness washed over her. She finally stood and wiped her tears. Her love was gone. Her husband, her baby girl—gone. And they weren’t coming back. Each year she aged only widened the gap between who she used to be and what she’d lost. William wouldn’t whisperHappy Birthday, Beautiful.Willow wouldn’t toddle into her arms screamingHappy Birthday, Mommy!The people she wanted to live for—needed to live for—had been taken from her, and no amount of sobbing would ever bring them back.
So she did what she always did. Survived.
She started the slow walk home, knowing she was returning to an apartment filled with silence. No birthday kisses. No love. Just cold walls, grief, and the unbearable emptiness where their laughter used to live.
She passed the front gate of her building and greeted the security guard with a soft, practiced smile, the kind grief teaches you to fake.
“Happy birthday, Ms. Rose,” Nick said with a cheerful nod.
“Thank you, Nick.” Her voice was light, pleasant—polished.
“Hope it’s a great one,” he added as she stood by the elevator.
“I’ll try,” she answered with another thin smile before stepping inside with Ace faithfully at her side. She pressed the button for her floor, her eyes blank as the numbers lit up.
But the moment she stepped off and neared her door, everything shifted.
Chatter. Laughter. The smell of food.
The sounds and scents hit her all at once, halting her in her tracks.
Music floated through the hallway. The savory scent of breakfast—seasoned sausage, buttery biscuits, sweet syrup—drifted through the air. Her brows pulled tight as her heartbeat picked up. She hadn’t invited anyone over. No deliveries. No security alerts. When she left earlier, her home had been still and empty—just like she left it.
So who the hell was in there?
Ahzii’s keys trembled slightly in her hand as she stood frozen at her front door, staring, confused, guarded, unsure whether to be afraid, annoyed… or hopeful.
Because someone was in her home.
And for once, it didn’t feel like grief was waiting behind that door.
She clutched Ace’s leash a little tighter as she stepped deeper into her apartment—only to freeze again at the unexpected sight before her.
Her mother was at the stove flipping pancakes, humming along and swaying to Beyoncé’s voice filling the kitchen. Kyre stood beside her, sliding crispy bacon onto a plate while dancing with a spatula in hand, clearly in her own joyful world.
Ahzii’s nerves eased. Her grip on the leash loosened as Ace slipped free, happily trotting toward his water bowl.
“So we breaking into my house now and invading my kitchen?” she called out, making her presence known.
Kyre spun around, eyes wide with excitement as her face lit up. “Happy Birthday, Bestie Boo!” she squealed, waving the spatula like it was part of a celebration parade.
A soft, surprised smile touched Ahzii’s lips. “Thank you.”
Kyre rushed over and pulled her into a hug just as Bianca turned away from the stove, her face glowing with motherly warmth.
“You didn’t think I was gonna miss cooking my babies breakfast for their birthday like I do every year, did you?” Bianca said as she wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Happy birthday, my Shugga,” she whispered, her voice warm in Ahzii’s ear.
Ahzii melted into the embrace before she could stop herself. It had been a while. She hadn’t seen or spoken to her mother in what felt like forever, too busy burying herself in work, avoiding the very feelings her mother always had a way of dragging to the surface.
