Page 219 of The Wright Man

And then, when the silence had softened, he spoke into my hair.

"Baby... you keep talking about how Maleek's always had to save you. But you really think he sees it like that?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't. The tears had slowed, but they still sat behind my eyes like rainclouds waiting for a gust.

"Let me tell you what I see," he said, easing back just enough to look me in the face. "That boy has never seen you as a burden. Not once. Not even at your lowest. You've always been a blessing to him. Ever since y'all were five years old and he decided you weren't just Angelica—you were his Angel."

My throat closed up.

"Dana used to say it all the time," he continued, smiling at the memory. "'That boy has the soul of a protector,' she'd say. 'And God help whoever tries her, 'cause that soul turns sharp when it comes to his girl.'"

I sniffled and looked down at my hands, twisting the wrinkled hem of my dress between my fingers.

Cap chuckled gently. "That boy beat the breaks off of anyone who had the guts to touch you. Like that little nigga who pulled your bra strap when y'all were in middle school."

My lips twitched at the memory, despite myself.

"He got suspended for three days. Dana was mad, but she wasn't surprised. And when he came home, what'd he do? Sat right on that porch with you, shared his last honey bun, and let you braid his hair like nothing happened. Like he didn't just go to war over you."

He looked at me pointedly. "That's every father's dream, you hear me? A man who loves your child loud, without shame or hesitation. Who'll fight for her and then come home to be gentle."

A soft laugh bubbled out of me, cracked and wet but real.

Daddy smiled wider. "Dana used to call him my son-in-law. Every time y'all got into something. 'Your son-in-law got suspended again today,' or 'I'm sending your son-in-law over with some leftovers.' She said it so often I started saying it too."

He looked off, like he could see Dana's face in the corner of the room. "It never bothered me, baby. Not once. 'Cause I knew you'd be in good hands if that boy ever got the chance."

My chest squeezed tight.

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to let his words wrap around me like a warm blanket and sink into the comfort they offered. But there were too many years between that porch honey bun and today. Too many moments I let Gavin strip pieces of me away. Too much shame in needing to be rescued again.

"What if he gets tired of saving me?" I asked, the words coming out raw and cracked. "What if one day he looks at me and finally realizes I'm not worth the work?"

Daddy went quiet for a moment. Not uncertain — just giving the question the respect it deserved. He looked at me the way he used to when I was little and asked something hard: like he wanted to make sure he said it right. Like the answer mattered.

Then he shook his head slowly, eyes full of certainty.

"Then you must've forgot who Maleek is," he said. "That boy ain't ever been scared of work, especially not when it comes to you. And now that you're free of that sorry excuse for a man, Maleek's gonna make sure you never need saving again."

I swallowed hard, tears spilling over again—this time quiet, slow, reverent.

Daddy pressed a kiss to my temple, soft and lingering. "You'll see," he whispered.

I leaned into him, eyes closed, trying to breathe in the safety I always felt around him. The way his presence slowed everything down. Reminded me of who I was before Gavin's voice replaced my own in my head.

Then I heard it—a low rumble outside. Tires crunching softly over gravel.

Daddy lifted his head slightly. I followed his gaze to the window behind the couch and stood to look.

Sticks' truck had pulled up to the curb. I could see the trailer already open, the sun glinting off the paint. Maleek, Sticks, and Riq were unloading with methodical care—quiet precision, like a team that knew each other's rhythm. My green trunk was already in Maleek's arms, held like something precious, not a box of worn-out memories and baby teeth and tear-stained letters.

Behind him, Riq carried the sitting chair from my bedroom like it was a throne. Sticks hoisted the damn mixer—my mixer—like he was handling classified materials.

They didn't rush. They didn't shove or drop or toss.

They handled me—my things, my life—with care.

And just like that, my heart thumped so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.