Then he started playing.
We ran through a few Stevie joints. “Superstition.” “Isn’t She Lovely.” Stuff we both knew. Stuff that felt good to play.
We were rough at first. Off tempo. But after a minute, something clicked. He adjusted to me. I adjusted to him. And suddenly we weren’t just two people playing the same songs—we were playing them together.
Yusef’s whole body changed. His shoulders dropped. His face relaxed. He wasn’t just going through the motions. He was feeling it. Lost in the music the way only someone who really plays can get lost.
I watched him while I strummed. This kid had been through so much. Seen too much. Lost too much. But right now, in this moment, he was just a thirteen-year-old boy making music.
When we finally stopped, neither of us moved for a second. Just sat there in the quiet, the last notes still hanging in the air.
Then Yusef looked at me. And smiled.
Not a big smile. Not a grin. Just a small, real thing that reached his eyes for the first time in weeks.
He picked up his notebook. Wrote something. Turned it toward me.
That was fire.
I laughed. Actually laughed. “Yeah. It was.”
He wrote again:
Can we do this tomorrow too?
My chest got tight. But not the bad kind of tight. The kind that reminded you why you were fighting in the first place.
“Yeah,” I said. “We can do this every day if you want.”
He smiled again. Then turned back to the keyboard and started playing something else. Something softer. Just noodling around, finding melodies.
I sat back and listened. Let the music wash over me.
This was what Zainab would want. Me and Yusef, holding each other down. Making something good out of all this pain.
I was gonna bring her home to this. To us. To a family that was still standing despite everything trying to tear us apart.
Later that night,Yusef was asleep in his room.
I stood in the doorway for a minute, watching him. He looked peaceful for once. Not haunted. Not scared. Just a kid, sleeping.
I closed his door softly and headed to my bedroom.
Zainab’s side of the bed was cold. Her pillow still smelled like her—that shea butter and vanilla she always used. I pulled it close, breathed her in.
“Hey, baby girl,” I said out loud. Talking to my daughter even though she couldn’t hear me. “Daddy’s coming. Okay? I’m gonna be right there when they move your mama. I’m not gonna let nothing happen to either of you.”
Silence. Just the hum of the city outside the window.
“I know you can’t hear me. But I need you to know—you’re already the most important thing in my life. You and your mama. And I’m gonna spend every day proving that. Whatever it takes. However long it takes.”
I closed my eyes. Held her pillow against my chest.
“Just hold on, baby girl. Daddy’s coming.”
12
MEHAR
