Fury burned through my chest. I’d been patient. I’d tried the “right” way—talking to administrators, filing complaints, asking for intervention. And for what? So Yusef could get jumped by three boys while nobody did a damn thing?
“I’m going to that school tomorrow,” I said, standing up. “I’m talking to the principal, the counselor, whoever I need to?—”
“No!” Yusef’s voice was sharp, almost panicked. “Please. Don’t.”
“Yusef, I can’t just let them keep doing this to you?—”
“You’ve already tried!” He stood up, his small frame trembling. “You’ve called the school a hundred times. You’ve talked to teachers. You’ve done everything and nothing changes. All it does is make them call me a snitch and come after me harder!”
The words hit me because they were true. I had tried. Multiple times. And every time I complained, every time I made noise, the bullying only got worse.
“Then what am I supposed to do?” My voice broke. “Just watch them beat you up? Just let it happen?”
“I don’t know!” Tears were streaming down his face now. “But going up there again isn’t going to help. They don’t care. The school doesn’t care. As long as nobody dies, they just tell everyone to ‘work it out’ and send us back to class.”
“Yusef, you have to stand up for yourself,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady even though I knew how hypocritical it sounded. “You can’t just let people do this to you.”
“What am I supposed to do? Hit them back? There’s three of them and one of me.” He wiped his face angrily. “Get suspended so you have to miss work? We both know you can’t afford that.”
“I’m not asking you to fight three boys at once?—”
“Then what ARE you asking?” His voice rose. “You want me to be tough? To be aggressive? I’m not built like that. I playchess. I play piano. I like reading and music. And I know that makes me a target, but I can’t just turn into someone I’m not.”
My heart broke into a thousand pieces. He was right. I’d been pushing him to be harder, tougher, more aggressive—all the things the world told boys they needed to be. But that wasn’t who Yusef was. And trying to force him to change wasn’t protecting him. It was just making him feel like who he was wasn’t good enough.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, pulling him into a hug even though he resisted at first. “I’m sorry, baby. You’re right. I just… I feel so helpless. I’ve tried everything the ‘right’ way and they still hurt you.”
“I know.” His voice was muffled against my shoulder. “But there’s nothing else to do. I just have to survive until high school. Maybe it’ll be better there.”
The defeat in his voice gutted me. Twelve years old and already resigned to just “surviving” instead of thriving. That’s a feeling I knew all too well.
“We’ll figure this out,” I said, even though I had no idea how. “I promise, baby. Somehow, we’ll figure this out.”
Brandi handed me Yusef’s backpack, her expression sympathetic. “Let me know if y’all need anything.”
“Thank you for watching him,” I said quietly.
We walked the short distance down the hall to our apartment, my arm around his shoulders, both of us carrying wounds we didn’t know how to heal. I kept looking at that bruise on his face, my mind racing through options I didn’t have.
I couldn’t afford a lawyer. Couldn’t afford private school. Couldn’t afford to homeschool him because I had to work. The system was supposed to protect kids like Yusef, but it had failed him over and over again.
When we got to our door, I stopped dead in my tracks.
Four grocery bags sat on our doorstep. Brown paper, stuffed full, looking expensive even from a distance.
“What’s that?” Yusef asked, momentarily distracted from his pain.
“I don’t know.” But my stomach did a weird flip as I knelt down and started looking through the bags.
Ground turkey. Steaks. Fresh salmon. Chicken thighs. Eggs. Bags of frozen vegetables, fresh ones too. Rice, potatoes, cooking oil. New seasonings—the good kind, not the dollar store stuff I usually bought. Fresh fruit. Apples, oranges, berries.
Real food. The kind Prime had said my son deserved. There was no note. No card. No explanation. But I knew.
“Who sent this?” Yusef was peering over my shoulder, his eyes wide, the bruise on his face looking darker in the hallway light.
“I… I think it was someone trying to help.” I stood up, bags in hand, and that’s when I saw it. A paper taped to my door.
RENT INCREASE NOTICE: Effective Next Month, Rent Will Increase by $500
