To anyone watching, we were the picture of success. A polished Atlanta family. A Black executive on the rise, his loyal wife and well-dressed child seeing him off.
By my side was our son, Kenzo.
Six years old. Small hand tucked into mine, fingers damp with sweat. He wore his favorite Hawks hoodie and light-up sneakers that blinked red and blue when he shifted his weight. His dinosaur backpack hung crooked on one shoulder, stuffed with a coloring book and a plastic T-rex he took everywhere.
Kenzo was usually quiet, but this was different. He was too still. His body rigid, his eyes tracking everything around us instead of bouncing with curiosity like they usually did. It felt like he was holding something in, something too big for him.
“This meeting in Chicago is crucial, babe,” Quasi said, pulling me into a hug that felt practiced. Familiar. Almost hollow. “Three days tops. I’ll be back before you know it.”
I nodded and smiled because that’s what I’d learned to do. Because smiling kept things smooth.
“Of course,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”
Kenzo’s grip tightened around my hand.
Quasi crouched in front of him, placing both hands on Kenzo’s shoulders, angling his face just right, like he knew how this moment should look.
“You take care of Mama for me, all right?” he said warmly.
Kenzo didn’t answer. He just nodded, eyes locked on his father’s face with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
It was the kind of look you give when you’re afraid you won’t see someone again.
Quasi kissed Kenzo’s forehead, then my cheek.
“Love you both.”
Then he turned and walked toward the TSA line without looking back, blending into the river of travelers heading toward metal detectors and gates.
I watched until I couldn’t see him anymore.
Only then did I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Okay, baby,” I said softly. “Let’s go home.”
We started walking toward the parking deck, our footsteps echoing against the polished floor. Stores were closing, metal grates half-pulled down. The flight boards flickered overhead with last-call announcements. People jogged past us clutching Chick-fil-A bags and backpacks.
Kenzo lagged behind, dragging his feet.
“You okay, sweetie?” I asked. “You’ve been really quiet.”
He didn’t answer.
We were almost at the glass doors when he stopped so suddenly I nearly stumbled.
“Mama.”
I turned, annoyed for half a second, then instantly alarmed by the sound of his voice.
“What is it?”
He looked up at me, and the fear in his eyes punched the air out of my chest.
“Mama,” he whispered, tugging my hand hard, “we can’t go back home.”
I crouched in front of him, trying to keep my voice calm. “What do you mean? Of course we’re going home. It’s late.”
He shook his head violently, tears already pooling. “No. Please. We can’t. Something bad is going to happen.”
A few people glanced our way. I gently pulled him closer.
“Kenzo, baby, listen to me. You’re safe. Daddy’s just on a trip. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
“Mama, please,” he said, his voice breaking. “This time you have to believe me.”
This time.
The words stung because they were deserved.
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