She drew a small box next toBreathe, waiting for a check mark I rarely gave myself.
I took a sip of coffee and nodded. “You a genius, baby girl.”
Reagan, without looking up said, “Obviously! Also, after school, can I go to Kayla’s house to practice cheer jumping? Her mama’s gonna be there. I’ll send you the address. I already know you are about to give your little speech.”
I leaned against the counter and let her run it.
“I know. I know. ‘Don’t be in nobody’s house you wouldn’t let in yours, keep your phone on, text when you get there, text when you leave.’ I heard you,” she said, mocking my tone.
“I’m not changing that ever. Phone on. Location on. You text when you get there and when you leave. If anything feels off, call me. That is not up for debate.”
I kept my voice even, but my chest stayed tight. Rules sounded controlling to people who never had to learn what it cost to be careless. I wasn’t trying to police them; I was building structure around what I loved. I didn’t have the luxury of assuming the world would be gentle. Protection was not a mood for me. It was a policy.
She rolled her eyes, but a smile broke through. “Okay, Daddy Deluxe. Relax.”
Reece hid a small smile behind her mug.
We ate quickly—eggs, toast, and the last of the turkey sausage. The stack of bills sat near the fruit bowl under a magnet. I noticed them peeking out at me—electricity, gas, car insurance, and extra-curricular school fees. Reagan and Reece were starting their sophomore year at Self Ridge Senior High soon, and every new activity they touched came with a price tag. I thought about my girls skipping ninth and stepping straight into tenth at the senior high school, and pride rose so quickly I had to swallow it. They’d been grinding through college courses like excellence was routine, not for clout, but for more. The wild part was they trusted me to keep the foundation solid while they reached.
I squared the stack, tapped the edges, and set it down. Numbers never scared me, and responsibility wasn’t new either; it was the hush behind the paperwork that bothered me—the unspoken tax on survival, the way life kept billing you for making it through, then acted confused when you stayed on guard.
“We’re good. We gon’ make it work,” I said out loud.
I needed them to hear it. Ineeded to hear it.
Reagan pointed at me with her fork. “We still need new cleats, choir shoes, theater fees, snacks, gas money, and all that. Just putting it on your spirit.”
Reece nodded. “I need a new sketchbook as well, Brubbie. Mine is almost full.”
I lifted one eyebrow. “Requests before eight a.m. is bold.”
“Closed mouths don’t get fed,” Reagan said.
“Open mouths get chores,” I answered.
She groaned, while Reece smiled. My girls stayed reminding me why I grinded so damn hard. That was for sure. Not because I wanted praise, but because I wanted them to have options. I wanted theiryesto be real choices, not desperation wearing a weak smile.
On the drive to school, they talked over one another—teachers, group chats, who wore what—filling my truck with a noise that sounded like tomorrow. When they stepped out at Self Ridge, backpacks bouncing and chins lifted, I watched them disappear toward the doors and felt that familiar tightening in my chest. It wasn’t fear; it was duty. It was the steady pressure that returns whenever I see their backs walking away, reminding me I’m the last line between my girls and a world that does not always care whether they make it home whole.
I sat there a beat longer than necessary. Folks would swear manhood is hardness, but it’s really consistency—showing up when nobody claps, doing the unglamorous parts right, andcarrying what you promised, even when your shoulders start filing complaints.
I flashed back to senior year—standing in that hospital hallway with graduation a week out, still wearing the shirt Mama pressed that morning. She and Pops had left to grab my cap and gown, and a distracted driver ran a red light, hitting them so hard the doors folded in and held them hostage.
By the time I got there, Pops was already gone. Mama was on a machine doing her breathing for her. Nurses moved around me, speaking in clinical code—cold, quick, professional. I didn’t understand the words; I understood their eyes when they stopped meeting mine.
I ended up in the chapel by accident, slumped in the back pew with my hands laced so tight my fingers ached, palms sweating, throat gone sand-dry. I didn’t even know what to pray.
All I could see was Reagan and Reece, three years old, sleep-heavy at Aunt Brenda’s, still flipping letters in their names, still racing to the door for Mama and Pops. And it hit me, quiet and final: from now on, I’d be the one they ran to.
The doctor found me there and told me our mama was gone. His mouth moved. The air shifted, and my ears rang. My stomach dropped. My body went stiff, then hollow. Everything in me wanted to go quietly. I stood up anyway.
I left that hospital with two truths: my parents weren’t coming back, and their house and their daughters were mine now. Grief wanted me in the green room; responsibility wanted me out on stage. So, I told God in that chapel,If You’re handing me this weight, then hand me the spine for it. I didn’t ask for easy. I asked for endurance, clarity, discipline, and to never become a man who abandoned what loved him.
Grammy kept me upright, and Aunt Brenda, Bryce’s mama, made sure we ate and had somewhere steady to stay while I finished school on my swim scholarship.
When Grammy passed, she left us the house on Maple and Third and told me, “Brick don’t raise babies; people do. But this brick can keep the rain off while you do the raising.”
I promised her I’d keep that roof solid and my girls safer than ever, and I’ve honored that word ever since. Promises aren’t poetry to me; they’re a ledger, and I refuse to leave my debts to go unpaid.
