I sat beside her.
And I told her everything.
The ad. The interview. The contract. The $250,000. The hormone injections. The IVF. The baby I was going to carry for a man I barely knew.
Mama didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t yell.
Just sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her face unreadable.
When I finished, the silence stretched so long I thought she might never speak again.
Then she said, quietly, “You signed a contract to have a baby for Amai Landry.”
“Yes.”
“The man who beat Phillip’s ass in the street.”
“Yes.”
“The man who just sent a doctor to my house at midnight.”
“Yes.”
Mama exhaled slowly. Shook her head.
“Truth, baby,” she said. “You have no idea what you just got yourself into.”
“I know.”
“No.” She looked at me. “You don’t.”
I didn’t argue.
Because she was right.
I didn’t know.
But I was already in it.
And there was no going back.
Later, after Mama went back to bed, I sat on my bed and pulled out my phone.
Typed,Thank you.
Sent it.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then,You call me if anything feels wrong. Anything. I don’t care what time it is.
I stared at that message.
Read it three times.
I don’t care what time it is.
