fantasia b.
i sat on the floor with my knees up and my back against the couch. eyes fixed on bryce where he still sleeping, his chest rising slow and safe under that little blue blanket my mom crocheted him.
but me? i'm not breathing. not really. the moment the door closed behind her, it felt like the house exhaled. like even the walls didn't know how to hold her presence anymore.
eight months. not eight weeks. not a maybe. not a new secret forming between two people learning each other. eight months. taraji having a whole baby with beyoncé and i didn't know. i closed my eyes and rest my head back pressing my palms to my thighs like if i ground myself hard enough, the ache won't rise but it does.
it's not even jealousy, not really. not the way people think of it. it's not about bey. it's not even about the baby. it's about all the versions of myself i had to bury to survive her and how easy she makes it look now. soft touches. truth on her tongue. showing up like she didn't used to leave bruises with her silence.
i loved her and for so long, she made me feel like i was too much to hold. like i asked for too much. needed too much. like my softness was a liability. like being fragile made me dangerous and now she gets to be gentle and gets to give beyoncé the version of herself i begged for.
i laughed sharp, bitter, and quiet so i don't wake bryce.
"eight months," i whisper to the ceiling. i don't even cry. i just sit here, dizzy from the truth. she came to bring our son and most importantly to clear her conscience and maybe that's the part that stings the most... not that she moved on but that she got healed on someone else's time. someone else's love. someone else's patience and all i got was recovery. i wipe at my face even though no tears fall. just a habit and reflex.
just... letting go. again. i lean over and run my fingers through bryce hair. he sighed and turned his face into my hand. we're whole. but tonight? i let myself ache.
****
it's going on 8 and i haven't moved. just sitting here with my legs stretched out now, toes painted chipped white, one heel pressed to the cool hardwood. bryce still hasn't stirred. his lashes flutter every so often like he's deep in some little boy dream that has nothing to do with the weight hanging in my chest and i'm glad. he deserves that innocence and peace even if his mama still trying to remember what that feels like. i tilt my head back. try to inhale but it catches and for the first time in weeks, i let it.
i cry. quiet, ugly. no sobs, just this slow leak of pain that starts in my chest and spills down my neck. and it's not for her. not really. it's for me. for the girl i used to be. the one who twisted herself into knots trying to keep someone who didn't know how to be soft. the one who covered bruises with foundation and called it loyalty. it's for every apology i gave when i wasn't the one who needed to say sorry.
"you did good," i whisper. not to anyone else. just to me.
"you got out."
i wipe my face with the sleeve of my t-shirt, then look over at bryce again. his mouth is slightly open, drool just beginning to pool on the pillow. i smile at that. at how unbothered he is. he don't know. he don't know how many nights i sat up rocking him while trying not to shake. how many times i swore to God if i just made it through one more night, i'd leave. how long it took to believe that safety wasn't a luxury—that we deserved it too and we got it now.
maybe it's not perfect. maybe it's quiet and lonely sometimes. maybe the bed feels too big and the light switches still carry memories. but we're safe. and nobody's yelling. nobody's breaking things. nobody's making love feel like punishment. i close my eyes again. this time softer. then, after a while, i stand. stretch. press a kiss to my son's cheek.
i'm hungry for joy and i'm gonna feed myself every damn day with or without her.
