Work slides back into place easily—familiar and grounding. I start drafting an article about Ava Noa, how she just celebrated her daughter’s first birthday and the careful way she’s testing the waters of a comeback after choosing domestic quiet over stadium lights for a while.
I pause halfway through, struck by the symmetry. I wrote about Ava taking a break to be a wife and a mother about a year ago, before my life flipped upside down in the worst and best ways. Now I’m writing about her returning to the world of music and fame. Time folds in on itself like that—headlines becoming echoes.
The media house has been good to me. More than good, actually. Marianne approved of me working from home until Julian turns one. It wasn’t a fight; it was an offer, delivered gently, with trust, and I don’t take that lightly. I type steadily, muscle memory taking over while part of me stays tuned to the rise and fall of Julian’s breathing.
When I finally close the laptop, the sun has shifted, afternoon light slanting across the floor. I check on Julian, brush a finger over his cheek, and let myself breathe. This is my life now—complicated, quiet, and full. I’ve mostly made peace with that.Mostly.
Julian is still sleeping, so I decide to take a nap myself. I’m too tired to make it to the bed, and the sofa is closest.
My phone buzzes just as I sink onto the cushions.
Addison.
I smile before I answer, thumb already hitting accept. “You better be calling to tell me you’re alive.”
Her face fills the screen—grainy but unmistakable—hair pulled back, eyes sharp, the familiar controlled chaos of her background telling me she’s not calling from anywhere comfortable. Mogadishu. Familiar, scary, and the last place I’d go back to. But this is Addison we’re talking about. She lives for the danger.
“Where’s my godson?” she demands without missing a beat.
“No hello Kate, I missed you Kate, how are you Kate?” I mock.
“Show me. Show me. Show me,” she demands, ignoring me.
I laugh softly and angle the camera toward the nursery door. “He’s asleep. Miracles do happen.”
“Rude,” she mutters. “Fine. Next best thing. How’s he doing?”
“Good. Happy. Growing. Judging me constantly.”
“As he should.”
We talk in quieter tones, both of us instinctively lowering our voices even though he’s not in the room. She tells me about being back in Somalia, how this second attempt at peace talks feels different—more brittle, like everyone’s pretending not to see the cracks forming under their feet.
“It’s tense, but compared to some of the places I’ve been? This is manageable.”
I shake my head. “You’re allergic to the concept of self-preservation.”
“And you love me anyway.”
“I do.”
She leans closer to her screen, eyes softening. “I have something to tell you.”
My stomach tightens. “That tone never means anything good.”
“Just—listen, and don’t freak out.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I found him.”
“Him as in him, him?!”
“Yes,” she confirms.
She does not need to name him for me to know who she’s talking about.
The room tilts. I don’t speak. I don’t breathe properly. My hand tightens around the phone like it might slip otherwise.
