On weekday mornings, Bria would stand on the porch with coffee while Daniel loaded the truck for work. Daniel had opened his own auto shop in town, Baptiste and Sons Automotive, though Bryson liked to joke that he was still waiting for his name to be added to the sign. It was the kind of shop where everybody came from, old farmers with rusted Chevys to young men trying to fix up their first rides. Daniel’s reputation stretched across parish lines. People said he was fair, steady, and always whistling to old-school R&B while he worked.

Promise had been born different, and the world noticed before she ever could. Her words came few, but her spirit spoke loud enough to move mountains. Doctors said it was probably due to the trauma she endured in utero, said she might never talk or walk, but God had other plans. Every sound she made was music, every smile a sermon. There was a light in her that nothing could dim. Sometimes Bria would watch her and swear she saw angels bending low, guarding that little girl’s every step. Promise did not need many words because God had already written His name across her story.

On September twentieth, the smell of dew and cane filled the air. Promise’s small hand clung to hers as the school bus rumbled down the road. The morning Raiya chose to arrive, the sun was already heavy and gold. Promise stepped onto the bus in her pink dress, turned to wave, and in that instant, Bria felt the pull low in her belly, a slow, warm rush that stole her breath. She laughed even through the pain. “Lord, not now.” Daniel turned, saw the look on her face, and broke into a run.

Raiya came into the world that afternoon with the sound of rain tapping on the roof and Bryson’s voice reading scripture beside the bed. Bria remembered thinking that maybe this was what redemption felt like… the world outside still wild but her heart steady and full.

Life went on sweetly. Evenings were spent on the porch swing, the air thick with night jasmine. Daniel’s hand would find hers, their fingers intertwined like roots. She would rest her head on his shoulder and whisper about her next event, about building a foundation for women in crisis. He would listen until the crickets drowned the rest of the world.

Peace was steady, but peace never stayed still for long.

One evening, Bryson answered the house phone in the kitchen. His voice had deepened, and he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a young man who had seen too much too early.

“Hello,” he said. A pause. “Who is this?”

Bria, folding towels in the hallway, heard his tone shift.

“Tell my mama you still love her,” Bryson repeated, confused. “Who is this?”

The answer slid through the static like a ghost rising from the dead.

“Corey. My dad, Corey?”

Bryson’s voice sharpened. “How did you get this number? You ain’t my daddy.”

The words hit Bria like a blow. Her whole body went cold. The towel fell from her hands. She moved fast, snatching the phone from Bryson’s grip.

“Who gave you this number?” she demanded.

“Bria,” Corey whispered, almost tenderly. “I think about you every day. I…”

She did not hear the rest.

Something roared inside her head.

Not his voice.

The sound.

The awful world-ending blast from years ago.

Her vision blurred. The hallway stretched and warped. She tasted iron.

Her knees buckled.

The phone slipped from her hand.

Everything went black.    

The memory began to take her…

It was July Fourth.

Fireworks crack outside like the sky was breaking open. I am seven months pregnant and trying to breathe through the thick heat in our little house on Iberia Street. My belly is tight. My hands are shaking. My heart feels wrong.

Corey smells like liquor and street money. His voice is already sharp when a girl knocks on the door, young and trembling, saying she is pregnant too.

My stomach drops. The air gets heavy. Corey explodes.

He swears she is lying. Swears she is trying to ruin him. Swears I am overreacting like the truth is not sitting between us, breathing smoke.

I try to pack my clothes. My hands won’t stop shaking. Tears fall without permission.

“I can’t do this no more, Corey,” I whisper. “I got to think about my baby.”

“That is my baby,” he yells, slamming his fist into the wall. The whole hallway shakes. I flinch, clutching my belly, praying silently.

I try to walk around him. I just want to leave. I just want my mama.

But he is already blocking the door. And the gun is in his hand.

“You can’t leave me,” he says, his voice cracking. “You promised you would never leave.”

“Corey, please.” My voice barely exists. My baby kicks like she knows.

Outside, fireworks scream through the sky. Color bursts against the windows. My heart beats so loud I cannot hear myself think.

He lifts the gun.

I take one step back. One breath. One prayer.

Then the sound hits me. A roar so violent it rips the world in half.

My body hits the floor. Everything is smoke and heat and pain and the taste of blood.

I hear a voice in the distance. “Mama.”