come from lack of sleep but from holding everything together for too long without ever being asked how you’re doing.
My husband, Quasi, stood beside me, perfectly put together as always. Gray custom suit pressed sharp enough to cut, polished Italian shoes, leather briefcase hanging easily from his hand. He wore confidence like a second skin. The expensive cologne I’d bought him at Lenox Mall for his birthday clung faintly to the air around him.
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.continue reading …
