To anyone watching, we were the picture of success. A polished Atlanta family. A Black executive on the rise, his loyal wife and well-dressed child seeing him off.
By my side was our son, Kenzo.
Six years old. Small hand tucked into mine, fingers damp with sweat. He wore his favorite Hawks hoodie and light-up sneakers that blinked red and blue when he shifted his weight. His dinosaur backpack hung crooked on one shoulder, stuffed with a coloring book and a plastic T-rex he took everywhere.
Kenzo was usually quiet, but this was different. He was too still. His body rigid, his eyes tracking everything around us instead of bouncing with curiosity like they usually did. It felt like he was holding something in, something too big for him.
“This meeting in Chicago is crucial, babe,” Quasi said, pulling me into a hug that felt practiced. Familiar. Almost hollow. “Three days tops. I’ll be back before you know it.”
I nodded and smiled because that’s what I’d learned to do. Because smiling kept things smooth.
“Of course,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”
Kenzo’s grip tightened around my hand.
Quasi crouched in front of him, placing both hands on Kenzo’s shoulders, angling his face just right, like he knew how this moment should look.
“You take care of Mama for me, all right?” he said warmly.
The story continues in the next page ⏭️.
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