“My stomach hurts,” she said, walking with her head down.
Khloe kissed me quickly on the cheek. “She thinks it’s food poisoning,” she said, sighing.
Kennedi leaned over to kiss me too, the same routine she’s done since she was a little girl. “Love you, Daddy,” she said softly, then headed upstairs without another word.
I watched her go up the stairs, pulling out her phone. “She doesn’t have food poisoning,” I said, not bothering to hide my irritation. “Probably a stomach cramp or she’s either mad about something and knows exactly what to say to get you to let her leave school early.”
Khloe turned back to look at me, annoyed. “Okay, and? What’s your point?”
“My point is,” I said, standing up straighter, “you know she’s fine. You can look at her and tell it’s not that serious.”
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe not to you. But I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“And again, she’s not going to the doctor,” I said. “Because there’s nothing wrong.”
Khloe turned fully to face me. “And you know that because you’re the parent that’s what—always here? Always paying attention? Always making time to actually see what’s going on at home?”
I stared at her, trying not to snap back and ruin the good evening that I’d planned.
“I’m the only one around here concerned about our daughter’s health,” she snapped. “Not out here running around chasing somebody else’s dream of home ownership while our own home doesn’t even feel in order.”
That one hit, and I didn’t even try to hide the way it stung.
I wanted to snap back. I wanted to remind her how many times she’d used my income to pay for spa days, dinner parties, designer clothes, and whatever the hell else made her feel like herself again. I wanted to remind her that back when I wasn’t making what I make now, it was a problem. And now that I am making hella more and I’ve built something real? It’s still not enough for her.
I clenched my jaw, and chose not to say anything.
She blinked. And for a second, I saw the regret and guilt on her face. But her pride wouldn’t let her say anything. She didn’t apologize. She just looked away and continued doing what she was doing.
So I laughed before I turned and walked upstairs, leaving her in the silence she created.
I closed the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it. I ran a hand over my head and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor like it could help me solve problems within my marriage.
She didn’t even realize that what she said cut me so deep.
“Chasing someone else’s dream of homeownership while our own home doesn’t feel in order.”
Damn.
That’s the kind of line that lingers. That echoes in a man’s chest while he’s trying to find a way to make his family proud of him.
I rubbed the back of my neck and looked around our room. The room I came home to every night after doing the very thing she once said made her proud of me. But now it’s like nothing I do counts unless it fits her current checklist of what love looks like.
Family. Sex. Time.
Those are the currencies she wants now. Not the money. Not the houses. Not the dreams we swore we were building together.
I used to come home and she’d be waiting to hear about my day—asking about my closings, flipping through pictures of properties with me like it was our business. She’d say,“You really sold three in a weekend? Damn, Kairo, I’m so proud of you.”She meant it, too.
But now she didn’t want to hear shit unless it started withI want to fuckand ended withI’ll just stay home with you today.
But she knew who I was when she married me. She grew up watching her daddy provide. Did he miss a lot of things, yeah—but he also made sure that big ass house stayed paid for. And I’m just trying to do the same. Not because I want to be like him. But because I want her to feel safe, taken care of, and never in need.
I stayed at work because it was the only place where I felt like I was winning. Where nobody questioned if I was good enough. Where every ounce of energy I give is met with results. My clients love me. My team respects me. Hell, I could sell the damn shoes off my feet and get four times what I paid for them because I knew how to talk, how to listen, and how toclose on a deal.
Out there, I’m Kairo Givelle—the closer, the strategist, the man who makes deals happen. The one people call when they want the house of their dreams.
In here, I didn’t even know who I was to her or my daughter anymore. Maybe just a body in bed. A checkbook. A placeholder for the man I used to be in her eyes.
