Page 57 of Stat: Love In Scrubs
Since I had gotten a date for my interview with the hospital grant committee, Desmond had been going over possible questions with me, so I was prepared to kick ass. I even sat down to come up with a list of things that could help the school. After the fire, it refueled my purpose and made me realize how important it was for these kids to have a place to go. Even the situation with Veronica’s parents showed me we needed to have services for the grown people left behind, too.
So it left many things unspoken because those kinds of deaths were untimely. It was why many Black women were seeking doulas and more knowledge of their rights during childbirth. If we had more people advocating for us in the spaces, things would be better.
I drove separately from Desmond to the hospital today because he still had to work, but he wanted to make sure he was there for me. If only he knew how special that was to me. The pressure I felt to go in here and not ruin this for all the kids and people who needed Little Angels Academy.
It was a lot of pressure to put on just my shoulders, but it was one I was willing to carry with God’s help. This needed to work out. The entire way up to the floor in the hospital where my meeting was to be held, I paced.
Desmond was leaning against the wall in the elevator with a smirk.
“Why are you smiling like that?” I asked.
“Nothing at all. I was just wondering if you needed me to take you to the room upstairs to calm you down?” he asked with a smirk.
If we had enough time, I would have gladly taken him up on his offer. I groaned and walked over to where he was standing to wrap my arms around his waist. His arms automatically enveloped me, providing a sense of security and warmth.Desmond leaned down to place a kiss against my forehead. Then dropped his free hand to grip my ass.
I couldn’t help but giggle. I knew he was trying to distract me from the inevitable.
“I’m going to have to pass this time, Dr. Wilder.” I cracked.
He chuckled along with me until the elevator dinged, letting us know we had made it. We walked out of the elevator hand in hand until we stood outside the door of the awaiting board members.
I turned to face Desmond. “You got this, Boss lady. Now go in there and show them your heart. I know you’re walking out of here with that grant. You need to know it as well.”
I nodded and straightened out my blazer.
“You’re right. I need to show them I run shit.”
He smirked and shook his head. “Exactly.”
I giggled, then turned to take a deep breath before entering the room.
The boardroom was cooler than I expected. Clean lines, polished wood, glass water pitchers on the table—like success had a scent, and this room wore it as cologne.
Desmond walked me in but stood back once I reached the head of the table. I knew he’d be watching—quiet, grounded, ready to catch me if I stumbled. But I wouldn’t.
Not today.
A woman in a burgundy blazer nodded at me from the center seat. “Ms. Sinclair, welcome. Please, have a seat.”
I sat, spine straight. “Thank you. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
A man with silver hair leaned forward, glancing at a folder in front of him. “We’ve reviewed your application for Little Angels Academy. I understand you’ve been operating for eight years?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “We opened the doors in honor of my mother, Angel, who passed during childbirth. The Academy isa grief-informed learning environment for children who’ve lost their mothers during or shortly after delivery. We blend trauma-informed teaching, counseling, and community connection into a curriculum that centers emotional healing just as much as academics.”
There was a pause. One woman lowered her pen. I kept going.
“We currently serve thirty-five children full-time, with a growing waitlist. Our model has proven effective in helping children regulate emotion, build trust, and process loss in age-appropriate ways.”
Another man nodded. “And the fire? What was the extent of the damage?”
“Contained to the east wing—primarily one classroom and a shared resource space. Thankfully, no one was hurt, and we’ve continued programming in temporary locations. Repairs are underway, but this grant would allow us to go beyond just replacing drywall.”
I leaned forward slightly.
“We’re asking for funding to replace damaged furniture, update outdated technology, stock trauma-informed classroom tools, and cover teacher salaries for expansion. We have families waiting. Children who need us now. Not after the next budget cycle. Not to mention, we want to make these services available to the parents and significant others left behind as well.”
The woman in the burgundy blazer tapped her pen thoughtfully.
