I pushed the button, sending him to voicemail. Then I took a breath, grabbed my portfolio from the passenger seat, then climbed out and started the circus of unbuckling car seats, pulling out backpacks, and straightening their jackets.
Kodi was supposed to pick them up from afterschool care that day, since I had this meeting, but the center called half an hour ago saying no one had come to pick them up. I’d called Kodi over and over again with no answer. My mother and Joi were both at work, so I had no choice but to pick up the kids and bring them with me. I knew he’d done this on purpose. Kodi was trying to sabotage my meeting, but I refused to miss this opportunity.
As we made our way toward the entrance, my phone rang again. I managed to quickly pull it out of my pocket.
It was Kodi again, and I sent him to voicemail again and put my phone on vibrate.
Once inside, the lobby was clean and bright. The walls were all glass and filled with curated plants.
The receptionist’s eyes dipped to the kids, then back to me.
“Hi,” I pressed past my embarrassment. “I’m here to meet with Aria Cartier. I’m Rhythm Brooks.”
She glanced at her screen, picked up the phone, and spoke quietly into the receiver.
After a moment, she smiled. “She’ll be right out.”
A minute later, Aria walked into the lobby. She was pretty, pregnant, and looking tired in the way only moms did. She smiled as soon as she saw us.
“Rhythm?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I am so,sosorry for bringing my kids. Their father was supposed to pick them up and he—”
When she waved nonchalantly, my rambling stopped.
“Girl, relax,” she soothingly told me. “I have five kids. If I wasn’t blessed to have so much hired help, I’d never leave my house.”
I laughed, feeling the knot in my chest loosening. “Still… I didn’t want to look unprofessional.”
“You don’t look unprofessional at all. You look like a mother who showed up anyway,” she replied. “Come on, let’s go to theconference room. The receptionist can grab them some juice in a second.”
We followed her down a hallway lined with art.
In the conference room, Aria helped me clear a space on the table. I laid my pieces out one by one—mamas holding babies on buses, women praying at kitchen tables, little Black kids playing on cracked sidewalks with big-city skylines behind them. Every canvas had something about my life in it—being broke, loving hard, and trusting God anyway.
Aria took her time looking. “These are beautiful,” she nearly whispered. “They feel real. You don’t see a lot of work that shows us like this.”
My phone vibrated on the table. I cringed when I saw Kodi’s name flashing on the screen. I flipped it face down and gave my attention back to Aria.
Thankfully, Aria was focused on the piece of the woman braiding her daughter’s hair. “What do you think about a ‘Mothers of the Block’ night here at Voss? Your work would be front and center. We would sell both prints and originals. I would love for you to do a live painting that evening as well. There is a lot we could build from something like that.”
My words came out shaky. “Wait. Just like that? You do not even know me. You saw one painting in a restaurant and now we are talking about an entire event here? Opportunities like this do not just happen for people like me.”
She looked up at me fully then, like she wanted to make sure I heard every word. “You’re right. They don’t. That is why I pay attention when I see someone doing the work with no machine behind them.”
She tapped a fingertip lightly against one of the canvases. “I saw that painting at the restaurant, and I could not stop thinking about it for days. The expression on that mother’s face, the way you painted the kids’ hands, the skyline over her head… itfelt like Chicago and it felt like me. Then I went to your page. You have been posting for years. You show up with no gallery backing you, big-name tags, or gimmicks. Just the work. It is consistent, honest, and good.”
My throat tightened, and I had to swallow hard to keep from breaking down in grateful tears.
“When I opened Voss, I said I never wanted it to be a place that only shows artists who already ‘made it,’” Aria explained. “I wanted women like you in here. Mothers. People who are figuring out rent and daycare and still finding the energy to create something beautiful. Your pieces show real grind and love. They tell the truth about the women in this community. That matters to me more than a résumé.” She glanced at my portfolio, then back at me. “From a business side, your work has a clear look and message that buyers, brands, and audiences can connect with. Your colors are strong, your compositions are clean, and your themes are universal enough that brands and collectors can understand them. It photographs well. It will move prints and originals. I am not doing you a favor. I am making an investment I believe will pay off for both of us.”
My eyes burned. I blinked hard, but the room still went a little blurry. “Nobody has ever talked about my art like that.”
“Well, I am not ‘most people,’” she said with a witty smirk. “People opened doors for me when they did not have to. I remember exactly how that felt. This is me doing the same thing for someone who deserves it.”
A tear slipped out before I could stop it. I wiped it away quickly with the back of my hand, embarrassed. “I’m sorry for crying. This is so unprofessional.”
“You do not have to apologize for being grateful,” Aria urged with a smile. “If you say yes, we will build this together. You bring the art. I bring the space and the strategy. And we both walk away winning.”
