Chiana drove. She said it helped her keep control of the moment. I sat in the passenger seat, hands folded in my lap, watching Houston wake up through the window. The city looked different in daylight, less forgiving, more honest. Neither of us spoke much, my nerve already getting to me.
The building rose up out of nowhere tall glass, clean lines, sunlight reflecting back at us like it wanted to blind me before I could ask too many questions. This place looked expensive. Legit. The kind of place people came when they were ready to know the truth. The elevator ride felt too long to the Fifth floor. The doors opened to white walls, soft music, the smell of antiseptic and eucalyptus. Calm manufactured carefully. Like the space itself knew women came here already broken and needed somewhere gentle to land.
The receptionist smiled too kindly. "Ayida?" Chiana gave me a warm smile before I followed the nurse down the hall, my was heart beating so loud I was sure she could hear it. The room was small but warm with neutral colors, a framed print of a woman holding her belly, light filtering in just enough to soften everything. I sat on the exam table, feet dangling, hands gripping the paper beneath me.Don't hope, my spirit warned.Hope gon' cost you.
The door opened quietly and the doctor entered the room. She walked in with confidence that was evident . Black. African. Older than me but not old. Hair wrapped beautifully. Eyes sharp but kind. "Good morning, Ayida," she said, her accent curling around my name like it respected it. Something in me relaxed without my consent. "I'm Dr. Adebayo." She shook my hand, firm but gentle, and sat across from me with my chart already open. "I've reviewed your labs from Louisiana," she said. "But before we talk about them, I want to talk to you." I nodded.
"Tell me about your cycle." I swallowed. "It's heavy. Painful. Always had been."
"How old were you when you first started?"
"Eleven." She hummed softly. "Any miscarriages?"
"No."
"Any pelvic infections? Fibroids? Surgeries?"
"No surgeries. No infections that I know of."
She wrote something down. "And your mother?" My chest tightened. "She passed when I was little. Stroke." Her pen paused. "How old?"
"Thirty-six." She looked up at me then, really looked. "That's young."
"Yes ma’am it is."
She leaned back slightly. "Ayida, I'm going to say something, and I need you to hear it without shame." I nodded again, my throat tight. "Black women are often told we are infertile without being told why. Or we are told everything is fine when our bodies are screaming otherwise." My fingers curled into the paper. "We carry stress differently," she continued. "Trauma. Generational grief. Environmental toxins. Hormonal imbalances that go ignored because pain is expected from us." She met my eyes. "Pain is not normal. Heavy bleeding is not normal. Being dismissed is common but it is not truth." I felt tears sting my eyes.
She turned the chart toward me. "Your labs do not say 'barren.' They say 'under-supported.'" My breath caught. "You have signs of hormonal imbalance, likely progesterone deficiency. Your body ovulates, but it does not always sustain the conditions needed for implantation." I gripped the edge of the table. "So... I can't?" I whispered. She shook her head. "Thats not what I said." Hope rose too fast.
She held up a finger. "But I will not lie to you either. This may not be easy. And it may not be quick." She explained things slowly. how stress interrupts cycles, how inflammation affects the uterus, how Black women are more likely to be misdiagnosed or ignored until years pass. She talked about fibroids, endometriosis, about how trauma can live in the womb like an uninvited guest. "Your body is not broken," she said gently. "But it is tired."
"I've just felt like " My voice faltered. " it was my fault. My blood. My mama." Dr. Adebayo's eyes softened. "There are things medicine cannot explain," she said carefully. "But there are many things it can support." She slid a prescription across the table. "This medication will support ovulation. This shot" she smiled "remember to take it on schedule as instructed ." My heart skipped. "And rest," she added. "Real rest. Not survival rest." I laughed weakly. She smiled knowingly. "Then you must protect your peace like your life depends on it. Because sometimes, it does." I nodded, tears falling now. "Hope," she said softly, "is dangerous. But so is despair."
When she left the room, I sat there alone, staring at the wall, hand pressed over my womb.You hear that?I asked my body.Somebody don't think you dead.But my spirit whispered back,Hope still gon' cost you.
When I walked out, Chiana stood immediately. "Well?" she asked. I exhaled slow, like I'd been holding my breath since the elevator ride up. "She didn't say no." Chiana didn't ask anything else. She just pulled me into her arms, tight and sure. I rested my cheek against her shoulder, breathing her in, letting myself be held for a second longer than necessary.
"She prescribed me some fertility medication she want me to try," I said when I finally pulled back. "girl some of itinvolves needles." I shook my head, a nervous laugh slipping out. "I just don't know if I can do this. It all feel like too much." I pressed my lips together, eyes stinging. The idea of sticking myself with a needle, day after day, made my stomach twist. Part of me felt like I was standing at the edge of something too big, too uncertain. Like I was setting myself up to hope just so it could be taken from me again. That was my worst fear. Doing all of this and still ending up empty-handed. "That's why you got us," Chiana said immediately, her voice firm like she wasn't letting me spiral. "Every shot, every pill. girl, we got you." She smiled, squeezing my hands. "Now stop stressin' and let's see if we can get you a baby in there." She giggled, trying to lighten it, but I could still hear the care underneath it. The belief. I nodded, even though my chest still felt tight. Hope sat heavy on me. Dangerous. Fragile. But more alive than it had been.
—
We made it back to Louisiana mid–Sunday morning. The drive felt longer than the one out, like my body knew I was heading back into reality. By the time I pulled into my driveway and unloaded my bag, the house was quiet. Noles still hadn't been home. He'd texted while we were on the road, said he probably wouldn't make it back that night. I told myself it was fine.
After unpacking, I cleaned up, more out of habit than necessity. Wiped counters that were already clean. Folded blankets that didn't need folding. I needed my hands busy because my mind wouldn't rest.
My thoughts bounced between my own situation and Nia's. The way her face crumpled. The way Nash moved through rooms like he enjoyed chaos. He was just as evil as his damn mama as far as I was concerned, and the sister wasn't too far behind. It made my spirit itch. I felt caught between two worlds. Two bloodlines. Two kinds of power. One rooted in love and protection. The other in manipulation and control. Two different sides of spirituality staring at each other through me.
I showered, letting the water run hot, hoping it could wash the weight off my back. I Changed my clothes and slicked my hair back. Without really thinking about it, not giving myself time to talk myself out of it, I grabbed my keys. Madame Laurent's house called me in a way that wouldn't let me ignore it. I locked the door behind me and headed out, knowing deep down this wasn't just about fertility anymore. It was about lineage. About blood. About what I was carrying and what I was finally ready to confront.
When I pulled up to her house, the first thing I noticed was the quiet. Not silence, presence. Madame Laurent sat beneath the big swamp oak by the lake, sitting in her chair, hands busy. Spanish moss hung heavy from the branches, swaying slow in the breeze. She had a basket resting in her lap, fingers steady as she separated herbs into small glass jars all laid out like they had memory of their own. Every movement was intentional. Nothing rushed. Nothing wasted.
She spoke to me in Creole before I even reached her. "Ou an reta," she said, not looking up.You lateI smiled faintly and pulled a chair closer, sitting beside her. "It's such a pretty day," I said, letting my eyes drift toward the lake. The water shimmered soft under the sun, neither restless nor still. The air was warm but forgiving, the wind just strong enough to cool my skin. Oneof those days that make you forget trouble exists, if you let it. She nodded once. "Bon Dieu been kind today." Then she finally turned her head and looked at me. "Pa vini am ti koze."Don't small talk me.
I exhaled through my nose. "What'd that woman you insisted on seein' say?" she asked , her tone sharp now, clipped. She didn't like doctors. Didn't trust anything that came with white coats and charts instead of prayer and roots. "She didn't say I couldn't have a baby," I said carefully, glancing at her before letting my eyes return to the water. Her hands stilled.
She murmured a prayer under her breath, something old and familiar, something that rolled off her tongue like muscle memory. Then, "Mmhmm." That sound carried a thousand meanings. Caution. Hope. Warning.
I swallowed. "I met Fidel's other kids," I said quietly. Her fingers froze completely this time. She leaned back in her chair slow, eyes lifting to the lake like she needed distance before she spoke. "Where?" she asked. "At an event I had to attend with my husband," I answered. "They were guests too." She clicked her tongue once. "Just them or their mama too?"
