T h r e em o n t h s.
That’s how long I’d been somebody’s mama. And listen, I thought I knew tired. I really did. I thought tired was skipping meals because work had me behind, or falling asleep on the couch watching old episodes of shows I’d already seen three times. I thought tired was forgetting to take my makeup off before bed. This shit was something else.
A whole ‘nother level of tired became my new normal. Tired was me sitting on the edge of the couch, trying to remember if I brushed my teeth. Tired was me rocking Kassim with one arm, while replying to lash vendor emails with the other. Tired was crying one minute and laughing the next. Tired was leaking through my tank top and pretending like it wasn’t happening. Nobody warns you about this part.
Even with my body on autopilot, emotions scattered, and my lashes barely hanging on, every time I looked down at my baby boy sleeping on my chest, I felt love. Even in the chaos, he was mine. Kassim was damn near perfect, too. He looked like a combination of Knuck and me. He had my almond shaped eyes, his wide button nose, my full lips, and his “I said what I said” face. Our son came out the womb with attitude.
Before all of this, I was running my lash studio back in Arbor Hills, minding my business, healing from my last relationship, and going out here and there. But everything changed when Knuck came along. He flipped my world upside down and made sure I didn’t go any damn where.
Now, twelve weeks postpartum, this was me: maternity leggings, messy hair, milk-stained tank top, ashy ankles, and one fuzzy sock missing. I looked like somebody’s before photo, still having the nerve to type emails. One of my new lash vendors had questions about an order I approved. I had a team now that consisted of three techs, an assistant, and a manager that Knuck made me hire. Still, I was sneaking to work like I didn’t need to rest.
Kassim started crying out of nowhere, loud and dramatic. I adjusted him on my chest, tried to calm him down, and type one-handed. “Shh, mama’s got you. It’s okay,” I whispered, rubbing his back. Right then, my phone started ringing, and I just stared at the screen.
“Nope. Not right now,” I whispered, knowing she was calling with more wedding planning ideas. I debated whether I should let it ring. Before I could make a decision, the front door opened.
Cold air swept in, and then came my fiancé’s footsteps. Knuck walked in with a fresh fade, black puffer vest, designer black jeans and chains layered over a black hoodie. His cologne and attitude were on ten as he shut the door behind him and looked around once.
His eyes darted between the breast pump on the coffee table, Kassim hollering, my laptop open, and me… trying to hold it together. His jaw clenched, and that forehead vein popped. “What the hell am I lookin’ at right now?” he asked, voice low butheated. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. “Ny,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why the fuck you doin’ all this?”
“I’m not. I was just…”
“You are.” He stepped forward, looking like he wanted to fight everything that was stressing me out. “Give me the baby.”
“Keon…”
He looked me dead in my face. “Nyomi. Give… me… my son.” I handed Kassim over, and he calmed down instantly the second he hit Knuck’s chest like he knew better than to act up with his daddy. Knuck rubbed his back in slow circles. “You sittin’ there ‘bout to cry,” he said, brows low. “Doin’ extra shit and Iknowyour ass ain’t ate shit since I left this mornin’.”
“I’m fine,” I whispered, but my throat was tight.
Knuck didn’t even respond. He just stared at me like I was lying to his face… because I was. “You ain’t fine,” he said. “And what’s blowin’ me is youknowyou ain’t.”
“Babe, I was just trying…”
“Nah. Don’t even do that,” he snapped. He walked away, holding Kassim as he climbed the stairs. When he came back down, he was stripped of his clothes and only wearing his jeans, tattoos on full display. “C’mere,” he demanded.
“For what?”
“Nyomi…” His voice dropped. “Come the fuck here.” I walked over slowly, arms folded like a brat. He stepped into my space, heat radiating off his chest. “You just gon’ keep doin’ whatever the fuck you wanna do?” he asked.
“I wasn’t even…”
“You was. Every time I leave this house, you start doin’ too much. I come home after breakin’ my damn back makin’ sure you ain’t gotta stress overshit, and what I walk in on? You damn near in tears trynaworkand juggle Kassim.”
“First off, stop yelling at me. Secondly, I’mtryingto run a business and…”
“You got a whole staff.” He pointed to the laptop. “Fuck you talkin’ ’bout?”
“Oh, so you’re upset because you’re marrying a hardworking woman?”
“Nah. I’m upset ‘cause you don’t fuckin’ listen.”
That’s when my own attitude flared because who was he talking to? Last I checked, his child was upstairs. “You can’t tell me I don’t listen when…”
“The hell I can’t,” he said, stepping even closer. “You hardheaded. You stubborn. You don’t know how to sit ya ass down and let a man take care of you. You wanna be everything at once, then wonder why you fallin’ apart.”
I swallowed hard, closing my eyes briefly. “Stop yelling at me. I’m tired.”
“You tired ‘cause you won’t do what the fuck I told you,” he said, gripping my jaw gently but firmly. “You tired ‘cause you think you gotta carry shit I already made sure was handled.” His thumb slid across my cheek, forcing me to look at him. “You tired,” he repeated, voice dropping, “and you need some dick.”