Page 52 of Shadowed Obsession

“What’s wrong, Lo?”

“You know how I said I wanted to try again? The treatments finally worked. I’m pregnant, Dee,” she shrieks, waving a pregnancy test in the air. “I’m going to have a baby!” Her eyes well with tears as a soft smile stretches across her face.

I gasp. “Lo, it’s really happening.”

“You’re going to be the best auntie ever!” she exclaims.

“Seriously, I can’t wait. What did your moms say?”

“I still have to call them, but I had to tell you first since this wouldn’t have happened without your help,” she says, her voice breaking.

“Don’t mention it, babe. I hate that I’m not there celebrating with you,” I respond with a pout.

“Hey, you’re chasing your dreams right now. I know how it is. Come down whenever you can. I’ll be right where you left me, just pregnant!” she squeals.

I chuckle. It warms my heart to see her so happy. She’s going to be the best mother, and I can’t wait to meet the little nugget.

“I love you. Go call your mamas and tell them I said hi.”

“I will. I love you, too. Thanks, Dee,” she beams before the screen goes black.

My best friend is having a baby, and I miss her so much. I miss home so much. It’s moments like these that really suck. Watching everyone live their lives without me, because I’m so set on proving a point. Is it even worth it when I’m missing out on such important moments?

I swipe to open my calendar app, checking if my schedule allows for a weekend trip back home, when the tears I held in on the call finally burst, dripping onto the screen. The emotional dam I’ve worked so hard to build breaks, and steady streams fall, soaking my shirt.

This is a reminder of how different our lives are. It gives me hope that if IVF worked for her, motherhood could happen for me someday. But reality hits like a ton of bricks, reminding me of the danger I’d be bringing a child into. I’m embarrassed for mourning something I haven’t even experienced, and it makes me feel like a bad friend.

We both struggle with infertility and have had these conversations because they’re normal. Jealousy isn’t the word for it, because I amsothankful that she’s pregnant. Proud, as if it were me.

At the same time, it would be incredibly selfish if I started trying, due to circumstances out of my control. Alora lives a normal life, free of crime, stalking, break-ins, and threats.

She has a career of her own and is fit to parent in ways I’m not. I can hardly make up my mind, am too stubborn to askfor help, and since I don’t exactly have the best support system, what kind of mother would I be?

The dream of legitimizing dealings with Divin have always been rooted in the future I hope to have.

My childhood wasunique, but still privileged, so I know better than to complain. My normal wasn’t like Alora’s normal. She was adopted as a baby to a lawyer and a therapist who were well-off. Really good people. We both faced challenges from the outside world because of how our parents were judged, but people didn’t fear for their lives whenherparents entered a room.

They went to work every day to provide her with everything she needed and fully supported every dream she’s ever had. My parents ensured we never had a need for anything. Never missed a recital or sporting event. They were always present and affectionate. So, at least we sharedthatkind of normal.

At sixteen, she got her first job, working at a clothing store in the local mall. Whereas I was groomed to lead the organization and cleaned my first crime scene when I was sixteen.

Cici needed to run an errand after church one day. I waited in the car with her driver who told me to cover my ears to drown out the noise, but I still heard the gunshots. She was on the phone when she returned, and I’ll never forget her words.

“Klarkes don’t deal in bribes. We don’t exchange gifts for threats. Money is expendable, and once you offer it, it’s spent. Death is a debt paid, and I like my debts paid in full.”

She was so calm, that same eerie calm that Regina has. If anything, she was more upset about the blood spatter on her Sunday’s best than the life she took. Cici then instructed me on how to properly dispose of a body, because I was old enough to “get my hands dirty.” Darius was a bit younger when he got his start. It changed us and not in a good way.

Sometimes strangers would come over and we’d be introduced, only to never see them leave the way they came. I remember the screams of agony coming from the basement, the sounds of my dad throwing punches on victims, the blood residue in the sink, and that same mirrored calm on his face.

The scent of bleach still makes me nauseous, and I refuse to own a home with a basement. Kinda funny that I have a thing against basements while working with whiskey. Though I’m not afraid of basements or whiskey cellars, I don’t enjoy spending a lot of time in them.

I recall Dad holding my hand as he’d walk me into school with wrapped knuckles. When I’d ask about him being hurt, he’d say,“I’m okay, baby girl. We were just boxing.”

Sure, Daddy. Sure.

There were plenty of hushed conversations after dinner that we weren’t allowed to sit in on because it was “grown folks business.” Except I’d listen anyway, because I’m so nosy that I couldn’t help myself, only to overhear things I wish I could scrub from my mind.

I don’t want my children to live in similar conditions, and I remind myselfthat’swhat I’m fighting for.That’smy dream, and if I stand a chance at parenting with minimal trauma, I need to pull this off. Probably would be best to find a therapist, because bottling things up makes for violent explosions under pressure, and I amalwaysunder pressure.

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