How is she?
“She’s good.” I walked inside and put my hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong. And she’s coming home tomorrow.”
He scribbled fast.
You sure?
“I’m sure. Camille’s got this. The bail hearing is in the morning and then we’re bringing her here.”
He nodded, but I could see the doubt in his eyes. This kid had been through too much to believe in happy endings.
“Yu.” I squeezed his shoulder. “She’s coming home. I need you to believe that with me. Can you do that?”
He was still for a second. Then he wrote:
Yeah. I can do that.
“Good. Now come on. We got work to do.”
He tilted his head, confused.
“We gotta go to the store. Get food. Get the house ready. Make it nice for when she gets here.” I headed back toward the door. “Your aunt’s been eating jail food for weeks. We’re gonna have a real meal waiting for her.”
Yusef followed, and I caught the small spark of hope in his eyes. He scribbled something and held it up.
Can we get the stuff for her cinnamon rolls? So she can make them when she’s ready?
I stopped. Looked at him.
This kid. Thinking about his aunt’s happiness. Wanting to give her something that was hers.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “We can do that.”
The grocery store in LA was different from the ones back home, but shopping was shopping. There were all kinds of trendy foods. Sea moss soaked rice. Sparkling coconut water.
We grabbed a cart and moved through the aisles. I’d been making Zainab smoothies and tracking her iron intake since she started showing. Spinach, berries, bananas, the protein powder she liked. Sparkling water because she couldn’t have wine. Ice cream because she’d been craving it since month four. Pickles, and organic cuts of meat and rice.
Yusef was serious about the cinnamon roll mission. He studied his phone, checking ingredients, making sure we got the right flour, the right butter, the right everything.
He held up two jars of cinnamon, then wrote in his notebook and showed me.
She’s very specific. This one. Not that one.
“How you know?”
He wrote again.
I’ve been helping her bake since I was seven. I know.
I grabbed the one he pointed to. “Aight then. You’re the expert.”
He almost smiled.
We spent the rest of the afternoon setting up the house.
Groceries put away. Fresh sheets on the bed. Candles in the bedroom—the lavender ones she liked. Towels folded in the bathroom.
When everything was done, I stood in the bedroom alone.
