Page 48 of You Deserve Good Things

Forever.

4 yearslater

The sign gleamed under the soft morning sun, bold, powerful, gleaming like a crown jewel on a city block.Silas’s Solace Counseling & Wellness Center. And right beside it, like its soulmate, hand-in-hand in purpose and power?Shaniya’s Sanctum—A Haven for Families Affected by Violence.

Together, these signs didn’t just mark buildings; they marked a movement. They marked a revolution dressed in concrete and compassion. They were the bricks and mortar version of everything we’d bled, cried, prayed, and dreamed into existence.

The sunlight kissed the signs with reverence, as if God Himself was co-signing the mission. The gold-leaf letteringshimmered like it had a heartbeat of its own, reflecting purpose, protection, and peace.

When I looked over at my wife—my fine-ass, brilliant, spiritually stacked-up wife—standing next to me in a sleek slate-gray suit that hugged her curves like it was tailored by the heavens, skin glistening like caramel under that golden hour glow, I damn near forgot how to breathe. Her hair was swept up in a crown of locs, and her presence, my baby’s presence, was preachin’ louder than the signs.

We really did this.

Inside Silas’s Solace, the vibe was everything we dreamed of and more. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t clinical. It didn’t smell like bleach and bad news like most therapy offices. Nah. This place breathed warmth. The walls were soft hues—sandy taupes, sage greens, burnished ambers—like nature had pulled up a seat and said, “Let’s heal.” It felt like a hug, like peace wrapped in paint and patience.

There were plush velvet couches that sat in a circle, each one with a cozy blanket folded over the arm. Real ones. The type of blankets you grabbed when your chest was heavy and your soul cracked open. There were no stiff-ass, metal-legged chairs that squeaked when you shifted. Nah, not here. This was a sanctuary, not a session.

Books lined the shelves—there was everything from grief recovery to Black mental health literature, to journals filled with affirmations and guides for building yourself back brick by brick.

And in the center, there was a mural of Silas.

It was painted in deep indigos and soft silver accents, his smile was wide and real, like he was watching over us in every room. His chain caught the light in the painting, and his eyes, they followed you—warm, present, powerful.

Beneath the mural, in his own handwriting we’d pulled from one of his old notebooks, were the words:

You deserve to live, baby girl. And you gon’ change the world.

That shit hit me in the chest like a prayer.

The corridor connecting to Shaniya’s Sanctum was lined with black-and-white portraits—framed with photos of lives lost too soon. Each name was carved into the remembrance wall like a sacred altar. This was a space built from grief, molded in memory, and lifted through love.

But it wasn’t just about mourning—it was about mending. There were healing circles gathered in soft-lit rooms with cushions on the floor and incense burning gently. The scent of sandalwood mixed with lavender drifted through the air like peace itself was floating. Support groups, therapy rooms, an industrial kitchen where meals were cooked by mamas who had once lost their appetite for life and found it again through service.

And the rec room? That was my favorite part. It was filled with bright colors. Laughter. There were basketballs bouncing and kids running free. Smiles were big enough to break generational curses. It was a sacred playground for babies who’d seen too much, too soon. This was truly a sanctum for them.

All of it—every inch of it—was for the community. For the culture. For the ones still bleeding and the ones who didn’t make it. And my woman, she built that. She built it with strength, grace, and them fire-ass edges laid to the gods.

I turned, taking her gorgeous ass in again, watching how her eyes locked on Silas’s mural. She was talking to him in her head—I could tell. I knew her like my favorite book. Her smile was soft, nostalgic, like a silent “thank you.”

I slid behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, with my chin resting against her shoulder, my voice a breath.

“You did it, baby.”

She exhaled slowly. “We did it, Cory.”

I kissed her temple. Her skin was warm and soft, like cocoa butter mixed with blessings.

“Yeah. But this—this right here? This is your heart, baby. You manifested this through your healing. You made this sacred. This was your vision.”

She turned in my arms, pressing her forehead against mine, her hands tracing over my chest like she was making sure I was real.

“Are you proud of me?” she whispered.

I chuckled, low and sweet. “Proud? Baby, I’m in awe of you, your strength, heart, and resilience. You out here changing lives like you are the second coming.”

Her eyes got glossy.

“Damn, you ’bout to cry again?” I teased, grinning.

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