Just myself and Malik. No husband. No family to call when things go wrong. The two of us struggle through life with skinned knees, overdrawn accounts, and prayer in old pillowcases.
I had Malik at 22. His father left before I noticed the second test line. Taking this small baby in my arms, I felt horror. He was tiny. It everything felt impossible.
I still don’t know half my actions 13 years later. I waitress during the day and clean offices at night. I smell like fryer grease and industrial bleach when I get home and sleep for five hours before doing it again.
Malik grew raised in anarchy. I sense his rage. Surely he feels duped. I can tell by how he slams doors, talks back, and keeps his shoulders tight even when laughing. Not a bad child. But he’s made horrible decisions.
He’s missing school lately. Picking battles. His smart mouth doesn’t know when to stop. The principal called me last month about him pushing another kid down the stairs. Three weeks ago, police arrived at our door.
They told me, “You need to get your son in line,” in our tiny kitchen with coffee breath and warning tones. He’ll get into trouble.”
I cried on the hallway floor after they went. I cried until my throat hurt and chest felt hollow. The small boy who crawled into bed with me during nightmares broke my heart.
I cried for the teen who viewed me as a threat. I cried for myself because I always failed. Failure made me cry. I cried because I couldn’t solve it.
I didn’t hear Malik leave his room. But I felt him sit beside me. He was silent for a while. Then slowly, like it cost him everything:
I’m sorry, Ma. Not meant to make you cry.”
I wiped my face with my shirt sleeve and didn’t respond.
He said, “I’ve never seen you cry like that before…”
I sighed heavily.
“I wanna do better, Ma,” he said. Please be proud of me. Mean it this time. I do.”
I stayed up that night. I believed him, and it scared me to hope again.
The next days were odd. He got up early, made his bed, and did the dishes without being asked. After walking Mrs. Hutchins’ dog, I saw him raking leaves in front of the Robins’ house.
He admitted to assisting out to be useful.
It was initially untrustworthy. Maybe it was guilt—a fleeting performance. The third week arrived. He kept helping, working, and trying.
My heart remained wary. Too many failures. Too many late nights waiting for terrible news on the phone or doorbell.
He once brought a pack of buns, some roast chicken, and a cracked can of soup home.
What’s this? I requested.
“Dinner. Purchased from the discount bin. Im learning.”
Though small, it meant everything.
“I’m saving up,” he said me one night, drying his hands on a towel after washing dishes.
“For what, baby?” I asked while drinking tea.
“Your birthday,” he shrugged. “I want to get you something real this time.”
Heart overflowing, I blinked at him. I didn’t speak. He nodded and left before I started crying again.
It happened this morning. And I was astonished.
One day off was rare. I heard a knock on the door while in my robe with my coffee. Unusual mailman tap-tap. This was a significant and purposeful change.
Looking through the blinds, I froze. Three black-suited men stood on our porch. Behind them, a political thriller-like caravan of SUVs drove down our crumbling street.
A man presented a snapshot.
“Is this your son?” he called low and clipped.
My mouth dried. My hands gripped the mug.
What happened? Already plummeting. Is he okay? Was anyone hurt? Please, he’s trying hard. Working and staying out of trouble. Please, if he did…
“You’ve misunderstood,” a quiet voice behind them stated.
A navy-suited woman gently guided an older man ahead. His charisma was magnetic despite his blindness and pale eyes. A quiet security guard surrounded him as he stood tall.
“I met your son yesterday,” he continued. The grocery store. I left my wallet in the car.”
My hands shook.
“He saw me struggling at the register,” he said. I didn’t request aid. I looked capable. He came in, grabbed a few crumpled coins from his pocket, and paid for everything without hesitation.”
I looked at him to understand his words.
“He thought I was just an old man who didn’t have enough,” he continued, smiling. “When I asked why, he said, ‘You looked like my grandfather. My mother believes we don’t pass folks in need.'”
My throat shut. Malik, half-asleep, entered the corridor behind me.
“Where did you get the money?” My voice cracked as I asked.
He examined his socks.
“I’ve been working,” he whispered. Not wanting to say anything in case I couldn’t save enough. Ma, I wish you a happy birthday this year.
I covered my lips with both hands. Before I could stop, tears fell.
The blind man handed me a card from his coat. Just a name. A number.
“When the time comes,” he said. “Call me. I want to fund his schooling. Any school. Any dream. Please help this young man achieve his bright future.”
He turned and departed like that. The SUV line drove away quietly. I saw Malik blinking near me in the morning light.
Did I do wrong? Malik asks.
His voice was too tiny for a youngster who had once roared through his house like a thundercloud. He stood barefoot in the hallway, his curls untidy from sleep and shoulders pushed up like he was expecting the worst.
I laughed through sobs, but it broke. Shaky. Not knowing how to hold this moment.
“No, baby,” I approached him. «You did everything right»
He blinked quickly, and I knew he was fighting tears as I did when the lights were off, but he was too small to notice.
For the first time in months or years, he didn’t tense up when I grabbed him. I wasn’t ignored like an interruption. He just sank into me like he finally got what I was trying to give him.
I muttered, “I’m proud of you,” burying my cheek into his hair. “So proud of you.”
His arms tightened around me.
Though muffled by my shoulder, he added, “I didn’t think it mattered.” “I thought… I thought I ruined everything.”
My heart burst.
“It always mattered,” I said. “I was waiting for you to believe it, too.”
He sniffled and wiped his face on his shirt sleeve.
“You’ll still get a gift. And possibly a cake.”
“Yeah?” It was a breathy laugh.
I got a half-grin.
“Yes, I was thinking shiny. But I know you like candles, books, and odd herbal teas.”
“Make it shiny and weird, Kiddo,” I said. “All out!”
With no hurry or need to say anything, we stood there longer. Only two people have unraveled and stitched something new together.
I put on my coat to get the mail when he returned Mr. Robins’ rake that afternoon. I touched something in the pocket.
A folded paper. My chest hurt from his untidy, uneven, but attentive calligraphy.
“Ma,
I’ve erred. I know fixing things may take time. I’ll keep trying my whole life. No joke. I adore you.
-Malik”
I read it several times on the couch edge. It seemed sacrosanct. A penciled second chance.
Maybe he’ll keep promise. Maybe he won’t. People slide in life’s turmoil.
But now? Believe him. My heart will be lighter tonight when I sleep with the door opened for the first time in years. Because my son, whom I believed I lost, is returning.
Malik’s school called two days after the SUVs left. My initial thought? Dread.
There was no tension or worry in the other voice. It was happy. His art teacher, Miss Daniels, told me about a little library exhibition.
“Malik’s work is on display, Dawn,” she remarked. “He told me you might be too busy, but I think you’d want to see it.”
I left work early and caught the bus there. The library was quiet with mild talk and paper and pencil shavings. All walls were covered in student art. Bright, bold, messy, and free like kids don’t realize they are.
I noticed his name. Malik, 8th grade. Still Whole, In Pieces.”
It was a mixed media piece with gold streaks on sliced black-and-white photos. Very raw and wonderful. His brushstrokes were deliberate. Emotion.
I imagine his face was fractured on the canvas but fused with gold veins.
Kintsugi.
He didn’t know the word, I knew. He understood the sensation.
“Whoever did this… It seems they saw something, muttered the woman next to me.
My chest swelled with pride for the first time in a long time, not fear or tiredness.
It was my son. He appeared from behind a bookshelf when I turned. Met eyes. He seemed ready to leave.
He looked at me as I grinned.
“You did good, baby,” I said.
He smiled slowly.
I had a Sunday birthday. I just wanted a calm day and maybe a snooze if the universe was nice. Malik was waiting when I made my way to the kitchen.
He happily stood next to a tiny chocolate cake with uneven frosting and a slight tilt to the left. A mason jar on the table held a wildflower arrangement, a riotous explosion of color.
An accompanying little gift bag.
“Happy birthday, Ma,” he whispered, eyes bright with hope and nerves.
I put my hand to my mouth.
“Mrs. Hutchins helped with the cake,” he said hurriedly. I kinda picked the flowers. The field behind the lot.”
I stepped cautiously to the table, fearing the moment would break.
“And this?” I lifted the bag to ask.
“Open it,” he said.
Boho earrings with brass hoops and moonstones were within. Favorite type. It seemed he noticed. Somehow, he remembered.
I put them on there, crying again.
His voice was soft: “You like ’em?”
I grabbed him and hugged.
“I love them,” I remarked. “But not as much as I love you.”
Inspired by true events and people, this work is fictionalized for creativity. To preserve privacy and enrich the story, names, characters, and facts were changed. Any resemblance to real people, events, or places is unintentional.
