The rhythm of college life was instantly chaotic, but it was a chaos we controlled. We weren't worrying about abuse or survival; we were worrying about citing sources correctly and finding the best deal on crib sheets.
One evening, I was hunched over my laptop, trying to get through a dense reading for my "Human Behavior and the Social Environment" class, while Kiara was quietly sorting through a massive pile of hand-me-down baby clothes Layla had gifted us. The apartment was still bright with the glow of our desk lamps.
"Kiana, look," Kiara whispered, holding up a tiny, bright yellow onesie. "Do you think Layla bought this, or did her own kid wear it? It's perfect."
I pushed my laptop back, letting the stress of school melt away for a moment. I walked over and sat on the floor beside her. The carpet was plush and soft, a luxury we both appreciated every day.
"Layla probably bought it," I said, rubbing the soft fabric between my fingers. "She said she's already started a registry for us at three different stores."
We paused, smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of our situation. We were first-semester freshmen, and our biggest academic concern was whether we'd be in labor during final exams.
"It's weird, isn't it?" Kiara sighed, her voice thoughtful. "The whole point of getting away was to have a future, and now we've got two tiny futures completely dependent on us... before we even finish our first semester."
"It's a lot," I admitted, running my hand over the slightly firmer swell of my own belly. "But we're doing it in our own space, with our own money, and on our own terms. That man can't touch us or these babies. We're getting those Social Work degrees so we can get other people to a place like this."
We spent the next half hour not studying, but folding tiny clothes, discussing possible names, and mapping out the nursery. The scent of fresh paint mixed with the smell of my takeout coffee. It wasn't the college experience we might have dreamed of, but it was ours. It was safe, it was productive, and for the first time in our lives, the future felt entirely free.
***
The next week, our "Ethics and Diversity in Social Work" class had a difficult case study. We were given an anonymous file detailing a long-term case of family abuse, covering molestation, psychological manipulation, and the feeling of entrapment.
The room was quiet as the professor opened the floor for discussion. The other students, bright-eyed and eager, started talking in abstract terms—about mandated reporting laws, professional boundaries, and risk assessment models. They were using all the right terminology, but their voices lacked weight.
Then Kiara spoke. Her voice was steady, quiet, and carried a certainty that silenced the room.
"When you read this case," she began, her hand resting instinctively on her growing belly, "the solution isn't just paperwork. The most important thing for the victim is validation. The file says the police didn't believe the initial reports. That's where the system failed."
She looked straight at the professor. "When a child is being told for years that the abuse is their secret, or their fault, they internalize it. When they finally speak up, and the professional they turn to doesn't believe them, you don't just lose the case—you fracture the only hope that child has for trusting an adult again. The first job of any social worker isn't to arrest or file a report; it's to look that person in the eye and say, 'I believe you.' Everything else comes after."
The room remained silent for a long moment. Even the professor looked thoughtful.
"Ms. Moore ," the professor said, using the name we shared, "that is one of the most honest and necessary perspectives I've heard in this class. That raw empathy is what separates a student from a truly effective advocate."
I watched my sister, swelling with pride. We weren't just students here. We were survivors turned future advocates. We had found our purpose. Every traumatic moment of our past was now fuel for the vital work we were destined to do.
*******
It had been nearly two months since the start of the semester when Dad and Layla flew down to Atlanta to check on us. The pregnancies were now impossible to hide—we were rocking a comfortable, obvious bump and were often exhausted by the end of the day.
We met them at a local, cheerful spot near campus for lunch. When Dad saw us, he didn't rush us with questions about school; he just stared at our bellies with the kind of pure, uncomplicated joy we'd never had growing up.
"Look at you two," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he gave us each a careful, tender hug. "My beautiful, brave girls. And my little grands."
Layla was immediately practical and nurturing. "No heavy lifting, I hope," she said, giving our bellies an admiring look. "I brought you some ridiculously soft maternity sweaters and, more importantly, a cooler full of your favorite home cooking."
The visit wasn't about drama or deep emotional unpacking; it was about stability.
Over lunch, Dad didn't quiz us on grades; he talked excitedly about the nursery. "I took a trip to the apartment this morning before you were out of class," he admitted, "and I brought the cribs. I had a team set them up in the nursery. Nothing expensive, mind you—just the safest, best ones on the market." He winked.
Layla chimed in, "And I stocked your freezer. You are not eating ramen and fast food in your third trimester, young ladies. You need good, wholesome food, and a whole lot of rest."
It was a stark, almost unbelievable contrast to the fear and neglect we'd lived with before. Our father wasn't demanding anything from us; he was offering everything. He and Layla simply represented a love that was constant, generous, and secure—the foundation we needed to successfully pursue our Social Work degrees and prepare for motherhood.
As we said goodbye, standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Dad wrapped his arms around both of us, resting his hands on our bumps. "You two just focus on your studies and staying healthy. That's your only job. Everything else is on me."
Watching them drive away, I leaned on Kiara. "No secrets," I whispered, repeating the phrase that had become our quiet motto. "Just family."
**********************
There is a time skip and there are different days in each chapter
But Kiara spoke truth
What is your opinion?
Later Darlings
