“Three days tops and I’m back,” he said. “You hold down the fort here, right?”
Hold down the fort. As if my entire life was a fort he dropped his things in and walked away from.
But I smiled like I always did, because that’s what was expected of me. “Of course, we’ll be fine,” I said. My voice sounded normal, but I felt Kenzo squeeze my hand even tighter.
Quasi crouched down in front of our son. He placed both hands on Kenzo’s small shoulders in that way he always did when he wanted to look like the perfect father. “And you, little man, you take care of Mama for me, all right?”
Kenzo didn’t answer.
He just nodded, eyes fixed on his father’s face. That look…
It was as if he were memorizing every detail, every line, every feature, like he was seeing Quasi for the very last time. I should have noticed.
I should have felt something rip open in my chest right then. But we almost never recognize the signs when they come from the people we love. We think we know them.
We think eight years of marriage mean there are no surprises left. How naive I was. Quasi kissed Kenzo’s forehead, then mine.
“Love you both. See you soon.”
Then he turned, grabbed his carry‑on, and walked toward the TSA checkpoint. We stood there, frozen in the swirl of goodbyes and reunions, watching him disappear into the line of travelers.
When I finally couldn’t see him anymore, I exhaled. “Come on, baby. Let’s go home,” I said.
My voice came out weary. All I wanted was to drive back to our house in Buckhead, kick off the heels I’d worn to “look the part,” and maybe watch some mindless Netflix until sleep dragged me under. We walked down the long concourse, our steps echoing on the polished floor.
Kenzo was even quieter now, and the tension in his little body traveled straight up his arm into my hand. “Everything okay, sweetie? You’re really quiet today.”
He didn’t answer at first.
We passed closed shops with metal grates pulled down, glowing flight boards, people jogging toward last‑call gates with Chick‑fil‑A bags and overstuffed backpacks. The automatic glass doors that led to the parking deck were already in sight when he suddenly stopped. He stopped so abruptly I almost tripped.
“Kenzo, what’s wrong?”
He looked up at me, and God, I will never forget that look as long as I live. Pure terror. A kind of fear a six‑year‑old should never know.
“Mama,” he whispered, voice trembling. “We can’t go back home.”
My heart did a strange flip in my chest. I crouched down in front of him, holding his arms gently.
“What do you mean, baby? Of course we’re going home. It’s late.
You need to sleep, don’t you?”
His voice came out louder, desperate enough that a few people turned their heads. “Mama, please, we can’t go back. Believe me this time.
Please.”
This time. Those two words hurt, because they were true. Weeks earlier, Kenzo had told me about a strange car parked in front of our house.
Same dark sedan, three nights in a row. I’d told him it was a coincidence, probably a neighbor’s guest. Days later, he swore he heard his daddy talking quietly in his home office about “solving the problem once and for all.” I’d told him that was business stuff, that he shouldn’t listen to grown‑up conversations.
I hadn’t believed him. And now he was begging me, tears glazing his deep brown eyes. “This time I believe you, Kenzo,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady even though my insides were shaking.
“Explain to me what’s going on.”
He looked around as if afraid someone might hear. Then he tugged on my arm, pulling me closer until his lips were right by my ear. “This morning,” he whispered, “really early.
I woke up before everybody. I went to get water, and I heard Daddy in his office. He was on the phone.
“Mama, he said that tonight, when we were sleeping, something bad was going to happen. That he needed to be far away when it happened. That we… that we weren’t going to be in his way anymore.”
My blood ran cold.
“Kenzo, are you sure? Are you sure about what you heard?”
He nodded frantically. “He said there were people who were going to take care of it.
He said he was finally going to be free. “Mama, his voice… it wasn’t Daddy’s voice. It was different.
Scary.”
My first instinct was to deny it. To tell him he’d misunderstood, that his imagination was running wild, that Quasi would never. Never.
But then I remembered things. Little things I had filed away. Little things I had waved off.
Quasi increasing his life insurance policy three months ago, saying it was for “generational wealth,” just smart planning. Quasi insisting I sign everything—our Buckhead house, the SUV, even our joint savings—fully into his name. “It helps with taxes, babe.”
Quasi getting irritated when I mentioned wanting to go back to work.
“It’s not necessary, Ayira. I handle everything.”
The strange late‑night calls he took locked in his office. The frequent out‑of‑town trips.
That one conversation I overheard two weeks ago when I thought he was asleep, murmuring into his phone:
“Yeah, I know the risk, but there’s no other way. It has to look accidental.”
I had convinced myself he was talking about some risky investment. But what if he wasn’t?
I looked at my son—his terrified face, his trembling hands—and understood there was no universe in which I could dismiss him again. “Okay, son,” I whispered. “I believe you.”
Relief washed over his face, loosening his little shoulders.
But it was short‑lived. “So… what are we going to do?”
Good question. If Kenzo was right—and every cell in my body was screaming that he was—going back home was a death sentence.
But where could we go? All of our friends were also Quasi’s friends—same neighborhood, same churches, same dinner parties in Buckhead and Midtown. My family was in North Carolina.
And if I was wrong, if this was some huge misunderstanding…
But what if it wasn’t? “Let’s go to the car,” I decided. “But we’re not going inside the house.
We’re going to…” I swallowed. “We’re going to watch from a distance. Just to be sure.
Okay?”
Kenzo nodded. I took his hand again and we walked to the parking deck. The humid Georgia night air hit us as we stepped outside.
The parking deck was dimly lit, concrete echoing with distant revving engines and rolling luggage. Our silver SUV—a car Quasi had insisted on buying. “A safe car for my family,” he’d said.
Safe. What a bitter joke. We climbed in.
I buckled Kenzo in, then fumbled with my own seatbelt. My hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to start the ignition. “Mama?” Kenzo’s voice was small from the back seat.
“Yes, baby?”
“Thank you for believing me.”
I looked at him in the rearview mirror. He was curled up around his dinosaur backpack like it was a shield. “I’m always going to believe you,” I said.
“Always.”
And in that moment I realized how much that should have already been true. We drove in silence. I didn’t take our usual route.
Instead, I turned off Peachtree, cut through side streets, and circled our neighborhood from the back, heart pounding with every mile we got closer to Buckhead. I found a side street that ran parallel to ours, a spot tucked between two old oaks and a sagging mailbox. Through the gap in the trees, I could see our house—tall, brick, and beautiful.
The porch light glowed softly. The manicured lawn, the little flag on the mailbox, the front porch where we drank coffee on Sunday mornings, Kenzo’s bedroom window with the superhero curtains he’d picked out at Target. Home.
Or so I’d thought. I turned off the engine and the headlights. Darkness wrapped around us.
The only sounds were crickets and distant traffic from Peachtree Road. “And now we wait,” I whispered. Kenzo didn’t answer.
He just stared at the house, eyes wide. So we waited. Ten minutes.
Fifteen. The dashboard clock glowed 10:17 p.m. My thoughts started circling.
What was I doing—sitting on a dark street with my six‑year‑old, spying on my own home like we were in some bad true‑crime documentary? What kind of mother does that? What kind of wife suspects her husband of…
I couldn’t even finish the thought.
Quasi had never raised a hand to me. Never yelled at Kenzo. He was a present father, a provider.
He sent flowers sometimes for no reason, posted anniversary photos on Instagram with long, loving captions. But was he a loving husband? The question came out of nowhere and lodged in my chest.
When was the last time he looked at me with real tenderness, not for the camera, not in front of church friends, but in our kitchen with no audience? When was the last time he asked how my day was and actually listened? When was the last time he touched me without it feeling mechanical, like checking off a box?
When was the last time I felt loved instead of just… maintained? “Mama, look.”
Kenzo’s voice snapped me back. My heart lurched so hard it hurt.
“What? What do you see?”
He pointed through the windshield. A vehicle turned onto our street.
Not just any car. A dark van, the kind you barely notice until it’s too late. No company logo.
No front plate that I could see. Tinted windows, dark enough to swallow light. The van crawled past the houses, moving too slowly to be someone just driving through.
It was studying. Measuring. Hunting.
The van stopped directly in front of our house. “It can’t be,” I whispered. But it was.
Both front doors opened. Two men stepped out. Even at a distance, even with weak streetlights, I could see they were not UPS, not Amazon, not some late‑night maintenance crew.
Dark clothes. Hoodies up. The way they moved—silent, deliberate—made something primal in me lock up.
They stood in front of our driveway gate, scanning up and down the street. My instinct was to scream, to throw open the door, to dial 911, to do anything. But I sat frozen, fingers digging into the steering wheel.
One of them—the taller one—reached into his pocket. I braced myself to see a crowbar, or some metal tool to force entry. That would’ve been a robbery.
I could’ve handled a robbery. But what he pulled out wasn’t a tool. It was a key.
He walked up to our front door and slid the key into the lock like he’d done it a hundred times. The door opened. No forced entry.
No broken glass. Just a smooth turn. Only three people had keys to that door.
Me. Quasi. And the spare key that lived in his home office, in the locked desk drawer.
“Mama…” Kenzo’s voice shook. “How do they have a key?”
I couldn’t answer. My throat had closed up.
The men disappeared inside our home. The house where I’d slept the night before. Where I’d made grits and eggs for Kenzo that morning.
Where our family photos hung on the hallway walls. They didn’t turn on the lights. Instead, I saw thin beams of flashlights sweep across the curtains.
They weren’t stealing. They were preparing. I don’t know how long we sat there.
Five minutes. Ten. Time blurred.
Then I smelled it. At first, I thought it was in my head—a faint, chemical tang on the breeze. It grew stronger.
Gasoline. “Mama, what’s that smell?” Kenzo asked. That’s when I saw the first curl of smoke.
A thin gray thread slipped out from the living room window. Another from the kitchen side. And then the glow appeared—an ugly, orange light licking the edges of the curtains.
Fire. “No.”
I was out of the car before I realized I’d moved. “No.
No. No.”
“Mama, no!” Kenzo’s little hands grabbed for me from the back seat, his voice cracking. “You can’t go there!”
He was right.
I knew he was right. But it was my house. My things.
The photos from when Kenzo was born. My wedding dress, boxed up in the closet. The crayon drawings from preschool taped to the fridge.
The quilt my grandmother stitched before she died. All of it. Burning.
Flames bloomed behind the windows, fat and orange and fast, eating up the drapes, crawling along the walls. The fire leaped to the second floor, to the side where Kenzo’s bedroom was. In minutes, the living room was fully engulfed.
A siren wailed somewhere nearby. Someone else must have seen the smoke and called 911. The dark van roared away, lights still off, disappearing around the corner just as the first fire engine turned into our street, red and blue lights flashing against the night.
I shook so hard I could barely stand. Kenzo came out of the SUV and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, burying his face in my back. “You were right,” I whispered.
My voice was barely sound. “You were right, baby.”
If we had gone home. If I hadn’t believed him at the airport.
We would have been in there. Asleep. Surrounded by flames we never saw coming.
I couldn’t finish the thought. My knees buckled and I sank to the curb, staring at the inferno that used to be our life. My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I stared at the burning house for a beat longer, then forced my hand to move. The text was from Quasi. Hey babe, just landed.
Hope you and Kenzo are sleeping well. Love you guys. See you soon.
I read it once. Twice. Three times.
Every word was a knife. Every heart emoji was poison. He knew.
Of course he knew. He was in another state, building the perfect alibi while two men he hired tried to burn us alive in our own beds. Then he would fly back, devastated husband, grieving father, crying at a press conference, hugging neighbors, telling Channel 2 how much we meant to him.
He’d collect the life insurance, keep the house insurance money, empty the bank accounts, and move on. “I’m finally going to be free,” Kenzo had heard him say. Free of me.
Free of his son. The nausea hit all at once. I turned my head and threw up in the gutter, my body shaking with dry sobs I didn’t have sound for.
When there was nothing left, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and looked at Kenzo. He was sitting on the curb, arms wrapped around his knees, staring at the flames. Tears streaked his face, but he wasn’t sobbing anymore.
He looked… old. Too old. No six‑year‑old should understand that someone who kisses you goodnight could also want you dead.
I slid beside him and pulled him into my arms. “I’m sorry,” I whispered into his hair. “I’m so, so sorry.
For not believing you sooner. For everything.”
He held on to me like I was the last solid thing left in a world that had turned to smoke. “What are we going to do now, Mama?”
The million‑dollar question.
What do you do when you realize the man who promised before God and everybody to love and protect you has just tried to erase you from the earth? We couldn’t go home. Home didn’t exist anymore.
We couldn’t just walk into a precinct and tell them, “My husband did this.” He had an airtight alibi and a spotless public image. It would be my word—and that of a six‑year‑old—against his. We couldn’t run to church friends.
They’d say I was in shock, that I was confused, that I needed prayer and rest. We couldn’t go to my family. North Carolina might as well have been another planet at that hour, and I didn’t want to drag them into danger until I understood what we were dealing with.
Quasi was already on his way back, practicing his look of horror in the airplane bathroom mirror. We needed help from someone outside his world. Someone who wouldn’t be dazzled by his suit or his smile.
Someone who knew what it meant to stare down attempted murder. That’s when I remembered my father. Two years earlier, when my father, Langston, was in a hospital room at Emory battling cancer, he had called me to his bedside.
The Braves game played low on the TV. The room smelled like antiseptic and cheap coffee. He took my hand, his fingers still strong despite everything.
“Ayira,” he said quietly, “I don’t trust that husband of yours. Never have.”
I’d laughed then. Actually laughed.
“Daddy, stop. Quasi loves me. He takes good care of us.”
Daddy had just looked at me, worry deep in his eyes.
“Love is one thing,” he said. “I’m talking about what a man does when no one’s watching. If you ever need real help—help the police can’t give you right away—call this person.”
He had pressed a card into my hand.
ZUNARA OKAFOR
Attorney at Law
Atlanta, GA
On the back, in his shaky handwriting, he’d scrawled: KEEP THIS. I’d been offended. How could my father not trust the man who visited him in the hospital, who paid for the best oncologists, who always said the right things?
Now I understood. My father had seen something in Quasi that I’d chosen not to see. I dug my phone out again, fingers trembling, and scrolled through the notes app where I’d once typed the number in case I lost the card.
“Kenzo,” I said, my voice raw. “Remember that card Grandpa gave me? The one I kept in my wallet?”
He nodded against my shoulder.
“I’m going to call the person on it. She’s going to help us.”
At least I prayed she would. I dialed.
One ring. Two. Three.
I was about to get voicemail when a woman’s voice answered—husky, firm, tired. “Hello. Attorney Okafor speaking.”
“Ms.
Okafor,” I blurted. “My name is Ayira. Ayira Vance.
You don’t know me, but my father was Langston Vance. He… he gave me your number. I… I need help.
Badly.”
Silence stretched for a heartbeat. Then her voice softened, just a little. “Langston’s girl,” she said.
“Yes. He told me about you.”
She exhaled. “Where are you?”
“I… I don’t even know how to answer that.
My house—my house in Buckhead—it just burned down.” My voice broke on the word. “I’m on the street with my son, and my husband… I think my husband tried to kill us.”
Another pause. When she spoke again, her tone sharpened with urgency.
“Are you safe right now?”
I looked at the firefighters battling the blaze, their silhouettes thrown against the flames. No one had seen us, tucked on the side street behind the trees. “For the moment,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Can you drive?”
“Yes.”
“Then write down this address.”
Her office was in Sweet Auburn, just east of downtown Atlanta—an old neighborhood with history in its bones, where Martin Luther King Jr. had once walked the streets. She gave me the numbers and cross street, then said, “Come now.
And don’t talk to anyone on the way.”
It was close to midnight by the time I parked in front of the narrow brick building she’d described. The street was mostly empty, just a few parked cars, a flickering streetlamp, and the distant glow from a 24‑hour diner on Auburn Avenue. Kenzo had fallen asleep on the ride, exhaustion finally overtaking him.
I lifted him out of his seat, his arms looping around my neck automatically. The door buzzed open before I could ring. A woman stood there, framed in the doorway.
She looked to be in her early sixties, with gray locs pulled back into a low bun, reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. She wore a simple blouse and jeans, like she’d thrown on the first thing she could find, but her eyes were sharp, missing nothing. “Ayira?” she asked.
“Come in. Quickly.”
I stepped inside. She shut the door and locked it.
One deadbolt. The office smelled like old paper and strong coffee. Stacks of files sat in leaning towers on metal cabinets.
Framed degrees from Howard and Emory lined the walls alongside photos of civil rights marches. “Put the boy on the sofa,” she said, nodding toward a worn but clean couch under the window. “There’s a blanket on the chair.”
I laid Kenzo down gently and covered him.
He didn’t stir, just curled in on himself. “Coffee?” she asked. I opened my mouth to refuse, but she was already pouring from a thermos into two chipped mugs.
She handed me one and pointed to the chair across from her desk. “Sit,” she said. “Tell me everything from the beginning.
Leave nothing out.”
So I told her. I told her about the airport. About Kenzo tugging my hand, begging me not to go home.
About the strange car weeks before. The half‑heard conversations. The dark van.
The key in our front door. The smell of gasoline. Watching my house burn from the shadows.
The text from Quasi. She listened without interrupting, fingers steepled under her chin, eyes never leaving my face. When I finally ran out of words, the room was quiet except for the hum of the old AC unit in the corner.
“Your father asked me to look out for you if something like this ever happened,” she said at last. My chest tightened. “Something like this?” I repeated.
“He was a very smart man,” she continued. “He noticed things about your husband you didn’t want to see.”
That stung, but I couldn’t argue. She stood, walked to a tall metal filing cabinet, and unlocked the bottom drawer.
She pulled out a thick folder, worn at the edges, and dropped it onto the desk between us. “Three years ago, Langston hired a private investigator,” she said. “Quietly.
He wanted someone to look into Quasi’s business dealings.”
My heart thudded painfully. “And?” My voice was thin. She opened the folder.
“Debts,” she said. “A whole lot of them. Your husband has a gambling problem.
Not the casino‑for‑fun kind. The underground poker rooms off Buford Highway, the backroom games in College Park kind. He owes loan sharks.
Dangerous ones.”
She slid a few pages toward me—bank statements, grainy photos, written reports. “His businesses have been effectively bankrupt for two years,” she went on. “He’s been patching holes with the inheritance your mother left you.”
My mother’s inheritance.
One hundred fifty thousand dollars she’d left when she died. My safety net. My cushion.
Money I’d put into a joint account because we were married. “What’s mine is yours, babe,” he’d said, smiling. “He burned through all of it,” Attorney Okafor said quietly.
“Every cent.”
I felt like someone had punched me. “And now,” she continued, “the people he owes are knocking. With interest.
He’s in for almost half a million dollars.”
I stared at the papers. The numbers didn’t lie. “But I don’t have that kind of money,” I said.
“We don’t have it.”
“That’s where the life insurance comes in.”
I looked up. “You have a policy for two and a half million dollars, correct?” she asked. “Your father insisted on it when you married.
He wanted to make sure you and any future grandchildren were protected.”
I remembered the conversation clearly now—Daddy sitting at the kitchen table with the insurance agent, making sure every line was right. I’d thought he was being dramatic. “I do,” I said slowly.
“So,” she said, “if you die in an accident, who gets the payout?”
“Quasi,” I whispered. “Exactly,” she said. “He pays off his debts.
Starts fresh. Free and clear.”
A fire, I thought numbly. A fire is the perfect accident.
Hard to prove as arson if done carefully. Hard to trace back to the person holding the policy. “And he has the perfect alibi,” she added.
“He was on a plane when the fire started. Hundreds of people can confirm it.”
“But I didn’t die,” I said. My hands were ice cold around the coffee mug.
“And neither did Kenzo. And he doesn’t know that yet.”
“The one thing he didn’t account for,” she said softly, “was your son waking up early and listening.”
I looked back at my sleeping boy. “So what do I do?” I asked.
“I have no ID, no cards, no house, no money. I can’t just walk into a police station and say, ‘My husband tried to burn us alive,’ with nothing but my word and my child’s.”
“You have me,” she said simply. “And you have something Quasi doesn’t know you have.”
“What’s that?”
“The truth,” she said.
“And time to build a case around it.”
She leaned forward. “Quasi will be back in Atlanta by morning,” she said. “He’ll show up at the house.
He’ll put on a show for the neighbors, for the police. He’ll ask if they’ve found the bodies yet. When they haven’t, he’ll start to get nervous.
We have maybe twenty‑four hours before he realizes you’re alive.”
She stood. “You and the boy will stay here tonight,” she decided. “There’s a small room in the back.
It’s not the Ritz, but it has a bed and a bathroom.”
“Ms. Okafor,” I said, my voice shaking, “why are you doing this? Why help us this much?”
She looked past me for a moment, like she was seeing something far away.
“Because your father saved my life once,” she said quietly. “A long time ago, when my own husband tried to kill me.”
She met my eyes, and I saw it—pain that matched my own. “I know exactly what you’re feeling right now, Ayira,” she said.
“The shock. The betrayal. The fear.
I promised Langston that if you ever needed me, I’d be here.”
She gave a small, fierce smile. “It’s a debt I’m honored to repay.”
I swallowed the tears burning my eyes. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “The game has just begun.”
I slept maybe three hours that night in the tiny back room, curled around Kenzo on the narrow bed. When I woke to him shaking my shoulder, confused and asking where we were, for a second I thought it had all been a nightmare.
Then the smell of smoke that lingered on our clothes hit me, and reality crashed back down. My husband had tried to kill me. No matter how many times I repeated it in my head, it didn’t feel real.
At 7 a.m., there was a knock on the door. “Turn on the TV,” Attorney Okafor called. “Channel 2.”
I found the remote, clicked on the old flat‑screen mounted in the corner, and flipped to WSB‑TV.
BREAKING NEWS flashed across the bottom of the screen. MASSIVE FIRE DESTROYS LUXURY HOME IN BUCKHEAD – FATE OF FAMILY UNKNOWN. They showed aerial footage from a news chopper.
My house—or what was left of it—was a blackened shell, smoke still rising from the ruins. Firefighters in yellow coats climbed over twisted beams and charred drywall. And then they cut to a live shot on the street.
Quasi stood in front of the wreckage. He was getting out of an Uber, face contorted in an expression I knew too well—the one he wore before big presentations, when he practiced in front of the mirror. Calculated concern.
Measured horror. “My wife. My son,” he shouted at anyone who would listen.
“For God’s sake, someone tell me they weren’t in there!”
The reporter’s voice narrated over his performance, full of grave sympathy. “Mr. Vance, a prominent Atlanta businessman, was out of town on business when the fire broke out,” she said.
“He rushed straight from Hartsfield–Jackson to the scene. A desperate husband searching for his missing family.”
I watched him stagger toward a fire chief, clutching at the man’s jacket. “Did you find the bodies yet?” he demanded.
Not, Did you find my wife. Not, Did you find my son. The bodies.
The way he said it made my skin crawl. He wasn’t hoping we were alive. He was trying to confirm we were dead.
Attorney Okafor clicked off the TV. “He’ll spend all day there,” she said. “Talking, crying, asking about the bodies.
When they don’t find them, he’ll start to panic. That’s when people make mistakes.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “Ayira, I need to ask you something,” she said.
“Does Quasi have a safe in his home office?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “Behind a painting.”
“Do you know the combination?”
“It’s his birthday,” I said, almost embarrassed by how predictable it was. “He thought he was clever using something people wouldn’t suspect was important.
But I saw him punch it in once.”
“We need whatever is in that safe,” she said. “If he’s sloppy—and most men like him are—there may be something inside that ties him to the men who set the fire.”
“How are we supposed to get to it?” I asked. “The police are crawling all over that house.”
“They’ll secure the scene for a while,” she said.
“But tonight, when it’s dark and Quasi goes wherever he’s going to sleep, the house will be left with just caution tape and maybe one patrol car driving by every now and then.”
She gave me a look. “That’s when we go in.”
“You want me to break into my own house?”
“Legally, you still live there,” she said dryly. “And someone already broke it more than enough last night.”
“I’m going with you,” Kenzo said suddenly from the bed.
“No,” I said instantly. “Absolutely not. You’re staying here where it’s safe.”
“Mama,” he insisted.
“I know where Daddy hides things. There are spots you don’t know about. I know because I watch.
I always watch.”
He wasn’t bragging. He was stating a fact. Children see what adults ignore.
Attorney Okafor nodded slowly. “He may be right,” she said. “If there are hiding places in that office, he’ll know where to look.”
I didn’t like it.
Every mother instinct I had screamed to keep my baby far away from that burned‑out house. But we had twenty‑four hours at best. We spent the day in the office, the TV on low, watching Quasi tell our story to anyone with a microphone.
He did interviews with three different stations. Each time, he hit the same lines. “How am I supposed to live not knowing if they suffered?”
“They were my whole world.”
“I just want my family back.”
Lies.
All lies. Through a contact in the DA’s office, Attorney Okafor pulled up security camera footage from the neighborhood. We watched Quasi ride with detectives to the precinct, then back again.
We watched him pace at the edge of the caution tape, talk to neighbors, shake hands with officers. Finally, as the sun dipped low over the Atlanta skyline and the heat gave way to a sticky evening breeze, we saw him climb into a black sedan and drive away. “Now,” Attorney Okafor said.
She handed me black leggings, a dark hoodie, gloves, and a small flashlight. She had dressed in the same, practical and quiet. She found a smaller hoodie and gloves for Kenzo.
We drove to the edge of the neighborhood, parking in a spot she seemed to know by heart. “We’re not going in through the front,” she said. “There’s a wall in the back with no cameras.
The developer hired me during his divorce. I’ve seen the plans.”
It should’ve been funny. It wasn’t.
We walked along a narrow wooded path behind the row of houses until we reached the low section of wall. I boosted Kenzo up first. He scrambled over and dropped to the other side.
Then Attorney Okafor climbed with surprising agility for a woman her age. I went last, scraping my palms on the rough brick. On the other side, the air was thick with the sour smell of smoke.
Caution tape fluttered in the breeze near the front, but back here it was quiet. “Twenty minutes,” she whispered. “Get in, grab everything from the safe and any hiding place the boy knows about, get out.
I’ll stay in the yard and keep watch. If I do anything loud, you run. Don’t hesitate.
Don’t come back for me.”
My chest tightened, but I nodded. Kenzo slipped his hand into mine. We picked our way to the back door.
The kitchen entrance was charred but still standing. The doorframe was blackened. The glass pane had spider‑web cracks, but when I pushed, it opened with a creak.
The inside of my house was unrecognizable. Walls charred black. Ceiling partially collapsed.
The stainless steel appliances were warped, their shiny surfaces bubbled and twisted. The island where Kenzo had once sat doing homework while I cooked was coated in ash. The smell of burned plastic, wood, and chemicals burned my nose.
We didn’t have time to grieve. “Daddy’s office,” Kenzo whispered, leading the way. We climbed the stairs carefully, avoiding the spots where the railing had collapsed.
The carpet squished under our feet, soaked from the firefighters’ hoses. Miraculously, the fire hadn’t eaten through this part of the house as badly. The office door was warped, but still mostly intact.
I shoved it with my shoulder until it gave. The room smelled like wet smoke and cologne. Half the bookshelves were charred, books melted together in black lumps.
The leather chair was scorched on one side. The painting that had hung on the wall—some abstract art piece Quasi claimed was “an investment”—was gone, burned away, leaving the safe exposed. I punched in his birth date.
Beep. A green light flashed. The door clicked open.
Inside were neat stacks of cash bound with rubber bands, several folders, passports, and a cheap burner phone with a cracked screen. “Take everything,” I whispered. “Mama,” Kenzo hissed from the far corner.
“Look.”
He was kneeling by a loose floorboard near the desk. He pried it up with small, determined fingers. Inside the hidden compartment was another phone, sleek and black, a slim black notebook, and a sealed envelope.
I shoved it all into the backpack I’d brought. We were almost at the door when we heard voices downstairs. “You sure nobody’s here?” a man asked.
His voice had a deep Southern drawl. “Yeah,” another answered. “Police released the site.
We’re just double‑checking.”
My blood turned to ice. We couldn’t go down. There was nowhere to run except back into the charred bedroom or the hall.
I grabbed Kenzo’s hand and pulled him into the office closet, easing the door almost shut. Through the thin slats, I could see the slice of the room. Flashlight beams swept up the stairs.
Heavy footsteps creaked on the soaked carpet. “Boss said to verify the job was finished,” the deeper voice said. “They say they ain’t found bodies yet.”
“Impossible,” the other answered.
“That fire was hot enough to cook anything.”
“Maybe they already moved them.”
“Still, we check.”
One set of footsteps turned toward the primary bedroom. The other approached the office. The door swung open.
The man stepped inside, flashlight cutting across the space. The beam hit the open safe. “Yo, Marcus,” he called.
“Come look at this.”
The second man appeared. “What?”
“The safe,” the first one said. “Wasn’t open when we left.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.
We didn’t touch nothing but the accelerant.”
Silence. “Someone was here,” Marcus said finally. “Recently.
Dust around it’s disturbed.”
His flashlight dropped to the floor. “And look. Small footprints.”
My heart stopped.
“Too small to be an adult,” he said. “A kid?” the other man said slowly. “I think we got a problem,” Marcus said.
He pulled out his phone. “I’m calling the boss. He needs to know.”
Panic clawed at my throat.
If he called Quasi now, told him we were alive, that we’d taken whatever was in the safe, everything would explode before we had a chance to prepare. But I was in a closet with my child, unarmed and trapped. Then, from outside the house, a scream split the night.
A woman’s scream—high, raw, and terrified. “What the—?” Marcus snapped his head toward the noise. “Somebody out there?” the other man said.
“Come on.”
They rushed out of the office. The moment their footsteps thundered down the stairs, I yanked open the closet door. “Come on,” I whispered to Kenzo.
“Run.”
We flew down the hall, down the stairs, and out the back door. In the yard, Attorney Okafor stood near the wall, one hand over her chest, breathing hard. “Was that you screaming?” I asked, helping Kenzo up and over the wall.
“I needed to get them away from you,” she said. “Did you get it?”
I swung the backpack around and patted it. “All of it.”
“Good,” she said.
“Move.”
We sprinted down the alley, not stopping until we were two blocks away and sliding into her car. Only when the doors were shut and the engine was humming did I let myself breathe. “They saw the open safe,” I said, still panting.
“They know someone was there. They saw footprints. They’re going to tell Quasi.”
“Excellent,” she said.
I stared at her. “What do you mean, excellent?”
“Now he knows you’re alive,” she said calmly. “Now he knows you have whatever he was trying so hard to protect.
And now? He’ll panic.”
She pulled into traffic. “And like I told you—people in panic do stupid things.”
Back at the office, we emptied the backpack onto her desk.
Cash. Passports. The burner phone.
The second phone. The black notebook. The envelope.
She reached for the notebook first. The pages were filled with cramped handwriting—dates, amounts, names. “Well, well,” she murmured.
“Is your husband meticulous, or just dumb?”
“Probably both,” I said hoarsely. She turned the notebook so I could see. Each line documented a loan.
Names I didn’t recognize, some with nicknames in quotation marks. Amounts. Due dates.
Interest. Notes like “called again—gave me until Friday” and “threatened to come to the house.”
And then, near the back, I saw it. “Final solution,” he’d written.
Underneath, in darker ink:
Ayira’s life insurance – $2.5M
Has to look accidental. Contact Marcus – service $50,000 – half upfront. Date: Nov 2.
Nov 2. Yesterday. “He wrote everything down,” I whispered, stomach rolling.
“Why would anyone put this in writing?”
“Insurance,” she said. “On his end. If the men he hired turned on him, he wanted leverage—proof they were involved too.”
She picked up the cheaper burner phone.
“And I’d bet good money this is full of messages between him and those men.”
Both phones were locked, but Zunara—or rather, Attorney Okafor, as I still thought of her then—had a tech guy. She called him, and within an hour he was in her office with a laptop and a small case of tools. By 3 a.m., both phones were open.
We scrolled through text after text. Quasi to Marcus:
Need it done while I’m traveling. Solid alibi.
Marcus:
We can do that. Quasi:
Has to look accidental. Fire is good.
Hard to trace. And the kid? Can’t leave anyone behind.
It was all there. My husband had calmly typed about the murder of his wife and child like he was ordering plumbing repairs. The bile rose in my throat.
I felt something inside me harden. I was no longer the woman who believed love could explain away everything. I was a mother whose child had been hunted.
And mothers are dangerous when their children are threatened. “Is this enough to arrest him?” I asked. “Enough to arrest, prosecute, convict, and send him away for a very long time,” she said.
“But we have to do this right. If we go to the wrong person, these files disappear. You disappear.”
“So what do we do?”
She thought for a moment.
“I know a detective,” she said. “Homicide. Detective Hightower.
Old‑school, incorruptible. If we bring everything to him, Quasi’s got nowhere to run.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she said. “First thing.”
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen and raised an eyebrow. “Your husband has called you seven times in the last hour,” she said. “And sent fifteen texts.”
I picked up my own phone.
I hadn’t even noticed the vibrations. Message after message stacked on the lock screen. Ayira, for God’s sake, where are you?
Babe, I’m freaking out. Answer the phone. Police said they didn’t find your body.
Please tell me you and Kenzo are okay. If you’re hurt somewhere, text me. I’ll come get you.
And the most recent one, sent five minutes earlier:
I know you’re alive. And I know you took things from the safe. We need to talk.
URGENT. The mask had slipped. “He knows,” I said.
“Good,” she replied. “Text him back.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Text him,” she repeated calmly. “Tell him you want to meet.
Public place. Tomorrow morning.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to give him just enough rope to hang himself,” she said. My hands trembled as I typed.
Centennial Olympic Park. By the fountain. Tomorrow.
10 a.m. Come alone. His reply came within seconds.
I’ll be there, Ayira. We need to talk. Things aren’t how you think.
Things aren’t how you think. Like I hadn’t watched two men unlock my front door with my husband’s key and set my life on fire. “Perfect,” Attorney Okafor said.
“I’ll call Hightower.”
She explained the plan to him in clipped, efficient sentences. By morning, the park would be full of plain‑clothes officers blended into the Saturday crowd—tourists, joggers, people with strollers. All we needed from me was a conversation.
Not a confession. Just enough for them to move. I didn’t sleep at all that night.
I lay awake listening to Kenzo breathe, playing out a hundred versions of the meeting in my mind. At 9:30 a.m., the fall sun already warm on my skin, I sat on a bench near the fountain at Centennial Olympic Park, a light jacket zipped over a small wire taped to my chest. Families took photos by the Olympic rings.
Kids ran through the fountains, shrieking as the water shot up from the ground. Somewhere, a street musician played soft jazz on a saxophone. It looked like any other Saturday morning in downtown Atlanta.
Except for the plain‑clothes officers scattered around the park—leaning on railings, pretending to check their phones, pushing strollers, buying hot dogs. Detective Hightower sat at a picnic table with a newspaper, a baseball cap pulled low. Kenzo was back at the office with Auntie Z—as I had started to call her in my head—watching everything on a screen the police had set up for them.
At exactly 10 a.m., I saw Quasi. He walked toward me from the direction of Marietta Street, shoulders hunched, shirt wrinkled, eyes shadowed with dark circles. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked unpolished.
He saw me and sped up, relief flooding his face. “Ayira,” he said, almost running the last few steps. “Thank God.
Thank God you’re okay.”
He reached for me, arms open. I stepped back. “Don’t touch me,” I said.
For a split second, his expression flickered—anger flashing through before he rearranged his face into wounded concern. “Babe, I know you’re scared,” he said softly. “But you have to listen to me.”
“Listen to you?” I asked.
“Listen to what, exactly? An explanation for why two men used our key to walk into our house and set it on fire?”
He blinked. “You… you saw that?”
“I saw everything,” I said.
“Kenzo did too.”
His jaw clenched. He glanced around, suddenly wary. “Not here,” he muttered.
“Let’s go somewhere private.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said. “We talk here. Or we don’t talk at all.”
He ran a hand over his face.
“Fine,” he said. “You’re making this harder than it has to be, you know that?”
He sat on the opposite end of the bench, body angled toward me, voice low. “Yes, I owe people money,” he said.
“A lot of money. The wrong kind of people. They threatened you.
They threatened Kenzo. I did what I had to do to protect you.”
“By burning our house down?”
“I was going to get you out,” he said quickly. “You don’t understand.
With the insurance money, we could’ve started over somewhere else. New names. New city.
No more threats. I just… I misjudged the timing. It got out of control.”
“The insurance money only pays if I die,” I said.
He froze. His eyes darted to mine, then away. “Ayira…”
“Stop,” I said.
My voice didn’t sound like mine. “Just stop. You hired men to kill me and our son.
Then you stood in front of my burned‑out house and begged the cameras for answers about ‘the bodies.’”
“You took things from my safe,” he said suddenly, his tone shifting. “The notebook. The phones.
I need them back.”
He looked at me, jaw tight. “You don’t understand what’s in there,” he said. “If that gets to the wrong hands, I’m done.
And if I’m done, those men are coming for you next. You think they won’t? You think they’ll just let you walk?”
“So either way, I die?” I asked.
“But at least this way, it’s not you killing me.”
I stood. “Why’d you even marry me, Quasi?”
He laughed, a short, ugly sound. “You really want the truth?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “You were a spoiled girl with Daddy’s money,” he said plainly. “You were pretty and you were easy to mold.
That was it.”
The words sliced through me. “And Kenzo?” I asked. “Your son?”
He snorted.
“The brat,” he said. “Always weird. Always quiet.
Watching everything. Freak kid.”
There it was—his real face. In my ear, hidden under my hair, I heard Detective Hightower’s voice through the tiny earpiece.
“We’ve got enough,” he said. “Move in.”
Around us, the park shifted. The man feeding pigeons set down his bag and reached for his badge.
The couple pushing a stroller stepped closer. “Quasi Vance,” a voice boomed. Several officers converged, badges out.
“You’re under arrest for attempted murder, arson, insurance fraud, and conspiracy.”
For one wild second, Quasi’s face cycled through shock, denial, fury, and something almost like fear. Then he bolted. He shoved past me, sprinting across the grass, knocking into a family taking photos.
“Stop!” an officer yelled. He didn’t. He ran straight toward the fountains, then doubled back, trying to cut between two benches.
Officers moved in from both sides. He changed direction and came back toward me. Before I could move, he grabbed me from behind, arm clamping around my neck.
Cold metal pressed against my throat. A knife. “Nobody move!” he shouted, voice cracking.
“I swear I’ll kill her!”
The park went silent. Detective Hightower stood ten feet away, hands up. “Quasi,” he said calmly, “you don’t want to do this, son.”
“Shut up!” Quasi yelled.
“She did this. She ruined everything. You think I’m going to prison so she can live happily ever after?”
The knife dug into my skin.
I felt a thin line of heat as it broke the surface. My heart hammered against my ribs, but somewhere under the panic was a strange, steady calm. I thought of Kenzo, watching this on a screen.
I couldn’t let his last memory of me be this. “Quasi,” I said, my voice as steady as I could make it, “you’re not going to do this.”
“Don’t tell me what I’m going to do,” he snarled. “You’re not going to do it,” I said again, “because you’re a coward.”
His body jerked behind me.
“You always have been,” I went on. “Cowards don’t kill people looking them in the eye. They hire other people to do it.
And even then, they screw it up.”
The knife trembled. “Shut up,” he said through clenched teeth. “Look at you,” I said.
“Surrounded. Exposed. You’re not in control anymore.
That’s what you can’t stand.”
For a split second, his grip loosened. A single shot cracked through the air. Pain exploded in my ears.
Quasi screamed. The knife clattered to the ground. The officers were on him in seconds, forcing him down, cuffing his hands behind his back as he thrashed and kicked.
I dropped to my knees, hands shaking. Detective Hightower crouched in front of me. “You okay?” he asked.
I nodded, though my throat burned where the knife had pressed. “It’s over,” he said quietly. But it didn’t feel over.
Not yet. Quasi twisted his head toward me as they dragged him toward a squad car. “This doesn’t end here, Ayira!” he shouted.
“You hear me? You’re going to pay for this!”
His words felt hollow, echoing in the open air. For the first time, he had no script.
No audience to fool. Just consequences. The trial moved quickly for something so big.
The evidence was overwhelming—the notebook, the unlocked phones, records of money transfers, texts with Marcus and the other men. The arson investigators testified that the fire had multiple points of origin and accelerant traces. Marcus and his partner took plea deals, agreeing to testify in exchange for reduced sentences.
Their versions of events matched the messages on the phones. I testified. So did Kenzo, by video, in a small, careful way a child shouldn’t have to.
The defense tried everything. They claimed Quasi had been under extreme duress. That he was mentally unstable.
That the loan sharks had forced him. That he’d never actually intended for the fire to reach the bedrooms. None of it stuck.
The jury came back faster than anyone expected. Guilty on all counts. Attempted murder.
Arson. Insurance fraud. Conspiracy.
Twenty‑five years in federal prison. I didn’t go to the sentencing. I sat in the little Decatur apartment I was renting then, watching Judge Greg Mathis reruns with the sound off, my phone face‑down on the coffee table.
When it buzzed, I flipped it over. A text from Auntie Z. Justice is served.
Justice. The word felt strange. Because nothing about my life felt fair.
Eight years of marriage had been a lie. My son would grow up knowing his father had tried to kill him. That doesn’t disappear because a judge hands down a sentence.
But at least we were alive. At least he couldn’t touch us anymore. The months that followed were a blur of rebuilding.
I had to replace everything—driver’s license, Social Security card, bank accounts. The house insurance paid out. Not a fortune, but enough to start again.
Ironically, Quasi had burned our home trying to cash in on my life insurance, and in the end the only insurance money anyone saw was the policy on the house. With Auntie Z’s help, I navigated paperwork and court dates. I signed divorce papers he contested and lost.
I sat in boring government offices waiting to be called by number, filling out forms that asked me to list my “previous address” and “marital status” and “emergency contact.”
For emergency contact, I put “Zunara Okafor.”
Somewhere along the way, she stopped being just my father’s lawyer friend and became my first real friend. “Your father knew you’d need me one day,” she said one afternoon as we sat in my tiny kitchen, drinking sweet tea from mismatched glasses. “How did he know?” I asked.
“A father sees things a daughter in love doesn’t want to see,” she said. “He saw how Quasi looked at your family’s money. How he asked about inheritances.
How irritated he got when you talked about working again.”
She was right. The signs had always been there. I had just chosen not to see them.
Kenzo started therapy. At first, he barely spoke in the sessions. He sat in the chair, legs swinging, staring at a spot on the wall while the therapist gently asked questions.
But slowly, he started to talk. About the fire. About hearing his father on the phone.
About watching the house burn. The nightmares were worst in the beginning. He’d wake up screaming, soaked in sweat, crying that he couldn’t get out, that the fire was everywhere, that Daddy was coming.
On those nights, I crawled into bed with him. I held him close. I hummed the gospel songs my mother used to sing to me when storms shook the windows.
Eventually, his breathing would even out. “Mama,” he asked one night months after the trial, curled under the covers, voice small in the dark, “do you still love Daddy?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. “Why do you ask that?” I said.
“’Cause he was bad,” Kenzo said. “Really bad. But he’s still my daddy.
And sometimes… sometimes I miss him. Is that wrong?”
My throat tightened. I pulled him close.
“It’s not wrong at all,” I said softly. “He is your dad. And the part of him you knew—the part that played catch with you in the yard, that took you to the park—that part felt real to you.
It’s okay to miss that.”
“But he tried to hurt us,” he whispered. “He did,” I said. “And that was horrible and unforgivable.
But your feelings are yours, baby. You can miss the dad you thought you had and still be angry at what he did. Both can be true at the same time.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“I saved you, right, Mama?” he asked. I swallowed hard. “You saved us,” I said.
“You saved me. You saved yourself. You are my hero, Kenzo.”
He smiled into the dark.
A small smile, but real. In that moment, I knew we were going to be okay. Not immediately.
Not magically. But eventually. I went back to work.
Something Quasi had never really allowed. I got a job at a nonprofit in Atlanta that helped women experiencing domestic violence and financial abuse. We answered calls from women hiding in their cars in Kroger parking lots, from mothers whispering in closets while their husbands watched TV in the next room.
I listened to their stories and said the words I once needed someone to say to me. “It’s not your fault.”
“You’re not crazy.”
“You deserve to be safe.”
Helping them helped me heal. A year later, Auntie Z sat me down in her office.
“You have a mind for this,” she said, tapping a stack of case files I’d helped her sort through. “And you have something most lawyers don’t have—lived experience. I’d be a fool not to offer you a partnership track.”
I blinked.
“A partnership?”
“Go back to school,” she said. “Finish your degree. Law school.
The whole nine. I’ll help. When you pass the bar, we’ll put your name on the door.”
I was thirty‑four, a single mom, still paying off debts I’d had no hand in creating.
The idea of going back to school felt impossible. I did it anyway. I finished my degree, then enrolled in an accelerated law program at Georgia State.
While other students went to Braves games and rooftop bars, I studied after Kenzo went to bed, flashcards spread out on the kitchen table next to his math homework. It was hard. But not harder than pulling myself out of a burning life.
Three years after the fire, I passed the Georgia bar exam. I ugly‑cried on the steps of the courthouse when I got the results. True to her word, Auntie Z added my name to the glass door.
OKAFOR & VANCE, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. We specialized in family law and domestic violence cases. I used my pain to help other people climb out of theirs.
Three years after that, Kenzo and I moved into a real house. Not a Buckhead mansion. A small, cozy home in Decatur with a porch swing and a patch of grass out front.
The kind of house where neighbors waved when they saw you bringing in groceries. Kenzo, now eleven, chose his room and painted the walls blue. “No more superheroes,” he said, rolling his eyes when I suggested new curtains.
“I’m grown now.”
He covered the walls with posters of Black astronauts, scientists, engineers. “When I grow up, I’m going to be an engineer,” he announced one day at dinner. “Or maybe an architect.
I haven’t decided yet.”
I laughed. “You can be both if you want,” I said. “Seriously.
You can do anything you set your mind to.”
And I believed it. We had survived the unimaginable. What was a little ambition compared to that?
Every now and then, I heard about Quasi. An article about overcrowding at his prison mentioned him in passing. A notice came in the mail about a parole hearing he’d been denied.
I felt… surprisingly little. Sometimes pity. Mostly nothing.
He had become a footnote in my story instead of the main chapter. Time moved. Scars faded, though they never fully disappeared.
On the fifth anniversary of that night at the airport, I sat on the porch of our Decatur house with a mug of coffee, watching the Georgia sky lighten from navy to pink. Kenzo was at the dining table inside, pencil scratching over paper, working on homework even though it was Saturday. “Mama,” he called through the screen door.
“Can I go to Malik’s house after lunch?”
“You can,” I said. “But be back before six.”
“Okay!”
I smiled into my coffee. He had friends now.
Good ones. He wasn’t that quiet, scared little boy in the back of the SUV anymore. He was still observant.
He always would be. But he laughed freely, cracked jokes, argued about video games. He lived like a child should live.
My phone buzzed. Auntie Z. “Good morning,” I answered.
“You’re up early.”
“I have news,” she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. “Remember Mrs.
Johnson? Forty, three kids, no money, husband who thinks he owns her?”
“Of course,” I said. “Protection order granted,” she said.
“She and the kids moved into the shelter this morning. Safe.”
I closed my eyes, letting the warmth in my chest spread. “That’s good,” I said.
“That’s really, really good.”
“That’s why we do this,” she said. “For mornings like this.”
We hung up, and I stayed on the porch a while longer, thinking about the women we’d helped over the years. How many children had been spared living in houses full of shouting and slammed doors.
How many women had slipped away before things escalated to fires and knives. We had taken our tragedy and turned it into purpose. “Mom?”
Kenzo appeared at the screen door, taller now, almost eye‑to‑eye with me.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can always ask me something.”
He came out and sat in the chair next to mine. “Are you happy?” he asked. The question caught me off guard.
“I am,” I said after a moment. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugged, looking out at the street. “Because of everything that happened,” he said.
“Sometimes I thought you’d stay sad forever.”
I took his hand. It wasn’t small anymore. “I was very sad for a while,” I said.
“And I still get sad sometimes when I remember. But I’m also happy. I have you.
I have a job I love. I have friends. I have a life I chose, not one someone else chose for me.”
He was quiet, thinking.
“And Daddy?” he asked. “Did you forgive him?”
That one was harder. “I don’t know if forgive is the right word,” I said slowly.
“Forgiving doesn’t mean saying what he did was okay, or forgetting it. Maybe it’s more like… not carrying it anymore. Not letting it drag me down every day.”
I thought about it.
“In that sense,” I said, “yeah. I think I’ve let it go.”
He nodded. “I think me too,” he said quietly.
“I don’t think about him much. Just sometimes. Then I remember that the good parts weren’t really real.
And it gets easier.”
Such wisdom in an eleven‑year‑old. But Kenzo had never been an ordinary child. He’d seen too much, too young.
He’d survived. “You know I love you more than anything in this world, right?” I said, pulling him into a hug. “I know,” he said into my shoulder.
“Love you too, Mom.”
He went back inside to finish his homework. I sat on the porch, watching the sun clear the rooftops. Five years ago, I had watched everything I thought mattered go up in flames.
My house. My marriage. My sense of safety.
But in losing all of that, I gained something more important. Freedom. The freedom to be myself.
To make my own choices. To build a life on truth, not polished lies. It still hurt sometimes.
There were nights when I woke up sweating from dreams of fire and locked doors. Days when I saw a man in a crowd whose profile looked like Quasi’s, and my heart stuttered before I remembered. Trauma doesn’t vanish.
We just learn how to live with it. My phone buzzed again. A message from the support group I ran for survivors.
Thank you for the meeting yesterday, one woman wrote. For the first time, I feel like I’m not alone. I typed back:
You never were.
And you never will be. We’re in this together. It was because of messages like that that I got up and did the work, day after day.
Because I knew what it was to feel trapped, convinced no one would believe me. I knew what it was to have someone reach out a hand when I needed it most—my father pressing that card into my palm, Auntie Z opening her office door at midnight, my own child tugging my hand in an airport and whispering, “Don’t go back home.”
We don’t save ourselves alone. We save each other.
And now, I got to be that outstretched hand for someone else. The sun was fully up now. A new day.
A new chance. I went inside. Kenzo sat at the table, brow furrowed over math problems.
He didn’t notice when I leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Mama,” he protested, laughing, “I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Sorry,” I said, grinning. “I’ll leave the genius alone.”
I started lunch—spaghetti with meat sauce, his favorite.
The smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the kitchen, familiar and comforting. From the living room, I heard him humming. A child who had watched his house burn, who had seen his father dragged away in handcuffs, was humming while doing math homework.
If that wasn’t resilience, I didn’t know what was. “Kenzo, food’s ready!” I called. He came running, as he always did when food was involved.
He slid into his chair, eyes bright. “What’s for dessert?” he asked. “Ice cream,” I said.
“If you finish your plate.”
“I can do that in my sleep,” he said confidently. We laughed. We ate.
We talked about his science project and Malik’s new puppy and whether the Falcons would ever win a Super Bowl. Normal things. Beautifully, wonderfully normal.
After lunch, he rode his bike over to Malik’s house down the street. I washed dishes, answered a few emails from clients, straightened up the living room. Mundane, ordinary tasks that once would’ve bored me.
Now, they felt like a gift. When Kenzo came back before dinner, we curled up on the couch and watched an animated movie he pretended was too childish for him, even as he laughed at the jokes. Later, when I tucked him into bed—despite his insistence that he was way too old for that now—he wrapped his arms around me in a quick, fierce hug.
“Mama,” he said. “Yes?”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For believing me,” he said. “That day at the airport.
If you hadn’t believed me…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. “But I did believe you,” I said.
“I believe you. I believe in you.”
He smiled. “Good night, Mama.”
“Good night, my hero.”
I turned off the light and closed his door.
For the first time in five years, I didn’t feel afraid of tomorrow. Because whatever came, we’d face it together. And we would survive.
Just like we always had.
