Mama came out onto the porch when she heard us pull up.
“That yours?” she called out.
“Yeah, Mama,” I said, climbing out. “It’s mine.”
She nodded slowly, her face unreadable. Then she smiled—small, but real.
“Good,” she said. “Real good.”
The texts started two days after the failed transfer.
My phone buzzed while I was sitting on the porch with Mama, watching the neighborhood kids play in the street.
How are you feeling?
I stared at the message. It was from Amai. Short. Direct. No preamble.
I typed back:Better. Still cramping a little but it’s manageable.
His response came thirty seconds later.
You need anything?
I hesitated. Then,No. I’m good.
Okay.
That was it. No follow-up. No small talk. Just checking in.
The next text came three days later while I was at the grocery store.
You eating enough?
I smiled despite myself and typed back:Yes, Amai. I’m eating.
Good.
Then, a week later, while I was sitting in my car outside Saroya’s house.You need anything?
I’m fine. Thank you for asking.
Okay.
It became a pattern. Every few days, a text. Always short. Always checking. Never intrusive, but consistent in a way that made me realize he was thinking about me even when we weren’t in the same room.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
Two weeks after the failed transfer, I was sitting at Mama’s kitchen table day trading when Saroya showed up unannounced with beignets from Café Du Monde.
“You’ve been holed up in this house for days,” she said, dropping the bag on the table. “I’m staging an intervention.”
“I’m working,” I replied, not looking up from my screen.
“You’re staring at numbers and ignoring your family.” She pulled out a chair and sat down. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m just?—”
My phone buzzed on the table.
