After my husband boarded the plane for yet another business trip, my six‑year‑old son tugged my hand and whispered, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us—and it didn’t sound right.”
So we didn’t go back. We stayed somewhere quiet, trying to breathe and act like everything was normal.
Then I looked up and saw… and my heart felt like it was being squeezed tight. I had dropped my husband off at Hartsfield–Jackson Atlanta International Airport, thinking it was just another Thursday night, just another flight, just another trip to Chicago. The fluorescent lights in the terminal were too bright, bouncing off the shiny floors.
The PA system crackled with boarding calls. Somewhere behind us, a CNN feed played quietly on a mounted TV, running headlines about politics and weather and an accident on I‑85. People rushed past with rolling suitcases and Starbucks cups.
Atlanta—busy, loud, restless—moved on around us like it always did. But inside, I was bone‑deep tired. Not just sleepy.
It was the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones and your spirit, the kind you carry for months before you even notice the weight of it. My husband, Quasi, stood beside me with that perfect public smile he always wore. Impeccable gray custom suit, polished Italian shoes, leather briefcase in hand, the expensive cologne I’d bought him at Lenox Mall for his last birthday lingering in the air.
To anyone watching, we were the picture of Black excellence—a polished Atlanta power couple. He, the successful executive. Me, the dedicated wife who handled everything at home so he could chase his empire.
If only they knew. By my side, his sweaty little hand tucked into mine, was our son, Kenzo—six years old, in a tiny Hawks hoodie and light‑up sneakers, his dinosaur backpack slung over one shoulder. My entire world.
Kenzo had always been an observant child, one of those kids who preferred watching to participating. But that night, he was too still, too quiet. There was something in his eyes I couldn’t name—a deep, unsettled fear that didn’t belong in a six‑year‑old.
“This meeting in Chicago is crucial, babe,” Quasi said, pulling me into a hug that felt more rehearsed than real. Everything about him was calculated. I just didn’t know how true that was yet.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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