No matterhow many times I watched her, I’d never not be starstruck watching my wife on stage.
She was amazing.
My son shifted in my arms, pulling me from my obsession.
“Look, buddy. Momma’s doin’ her thing.”
He curled his tiny fist against my chest, dead to the world thanks to his little noise-canceling headphones, despite the roar of the crowd just beyond the curtain.
At eighteen months old, Weston James Jr., or Westy as his momma called him, had fallen asleep the second she started her set and hadn’t budged since.
The arena was packed. Twenty thousand people on their feet, singing along to every word as my woman owned the stage like she was born for it.
Which she was.
She’d given up concert life, but this one was different. It was a benefit for childhood cancer research—something Hattie had become passionate about after a fan she’d met in Chicago a couple years ago had lost her battle. The news had gutted my wife, and she’d thrown herself into fundraising like her life depended on it.
Shifting Westy to my other arm, careful not to wake him, I watched his mama command the stage in a sequined silver dress that caught every light in the arena. Her long blonde hair flowed like silk as she moved, and even after all this time, she still took my breath away.
“This next song,” Hattie said into the microphone, her voice carrying to every corner of the arena, “is for a little warrior named Lucy, who taught me that sometimes it’s the smallest fighters that make the biggest impact.”
The opening notes of “Stronger Than Yesterday” filled the air, and I felt my chest get tight. This song—the one she wrote about Lucy—always got to me. Especially after we had Westy. I couldn’t imagine losing him.
As she sang about hope and courage and never giving up, I thought about how much had changed in the last two years.
How I almost lost my wife twice—once to my own stupidity, and once to a madman with a gun.
How we built something beautiful from the ashes of what we thought was dead and buried.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I carefully pulled it out, making sure not to wake my boy.
Gator: Place is packed. You see the donation total yet?
I glanced up at the digital display. The numbers were climbing fast—1.8 million and counting.
Me: Almost at 2 mil
Gator: Your woman’s gonna cure cancer.
My lips turned up. If anyone could, it’d be my baby.
She finished the last note of her song, and the crowd erupted like a damn volcano. I watched in awe as she took a bow, her hand over her heart, and I could see the tears glistening on her cheeks.
“Thank you, Miami!” she called into the mic. “You’ve helped us raise over two million dollars tonight for childhood cancer research!”
The roar was deafening. People were on their feet, crying, cheering, throwing flowers onto the stage.
Hattie glanced over her shoulder, her eyes meeting mine as she threw a wave to the crowd before jogging off the stage right into my arms.
“How’d I do?” she asked breathlessly, though she already knew from the look on my face and the sound of the crowd still going wild behind the curtain.
“Perfect,” I murmured against her hair. “Just like always, Songbird.”
She pulled back to look at our son, her fingers gentle as she brushed a dark curl away from his forehead. “He slept through the whole thing?”
“Like a rock.”
She laughed. “I swear. The boy could sleep through a tornado.”
