Her powerful and provocative artistry fails to capture the hearts of those who don't quite understand her message. Often overlooked in the art world, Beyoncé has struggled for years to gain the respect of her peers. That all changes when she meets A...
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now playing: "Who Can I Run To?" By The Jones Girls
I'd always wanted to be a mother.
Not in the sense of bearing my own children, per se. I wasn't sure if I'd be fit to be an actual mother. To this day, the residual effects of the dysfunction and the trauma from childhood were still very much present, and I was still navigating the aftermath.
No, what I envisioned was guiding a young soul to nurture and protect, offer them comfort and support. It was a trait I'd honed in on as a child, watching my sister grow under the watchful eyes of my mother. How attentive she was, how dedicated she was. She, and sometimes my father, would drop everything for her. Whether it was helping her with homework, or coddling her when she had a nightmare, or taking her to an audition or an event, or simply sitting her down to talk about her day, my mother would move mountains for her. She was loved, cherished, and protected because she was the baby.
In contrast, I was met with indifference.
Over time, I'd learned to take solace in what they considered to be my small 'acts of rebellion', moments of defiance that opened up an opportunity for freedom in the future and lessened the blow of disappointment. A poorly made bed, a missed curfew, a 'B' on a paper because I was too tired to do hour-long study binges. 'Small victories' is what Kelly called them.
Our parents pushed us, nurtured our talents, but also relentlessly highlighted our flaws. They compared us, subtly pinning us against each other, fostering a toxic rivalry that ate away at our sisterly bond. As we grew older and our relationship strained, it became increasingly difficult to coexist in a house filled with tension and animosity, with words so sharp that they could cut skin. The resentment had festered and grown until the cracks became irreparable, the damage too great.
Eventually, I'd grown and gone, and our lives had diverged. She stayed in Houston, and I left for New York for a year before heading towards L.A. for school, desperate for distance. We never spoke—no birthday wishes, no holiday greetings. We were strangers.
And now, her desperate voice, her plea, had echoed through my phone.
I'd initially taken some time to digest her words before calling her back, and as the line rang, I couldn't deny the apprehension that simmered beneath the surface.
"You're what?" I sat up immediately. The words slipped from my lips before I could rein them in, as incredulous as they were blunt.
"I'm pregnant," she repeated, her voice trembling over the phone line. It was a whisper, a confession, a single note of vulnerability in the symphony of her life.
I looked around my room, the light and darkness mixing to create cast shadows along the walls as I hadn't had the chance to turn off my lamp. I was supposed to be sleeping and relaxing the week before classes started, but instead, here I was, wide awake, listening to this bombshell.
