CHAPTER SIX: MALIA'S WEEKEND
Saturday mornings used to be pancake mornings.
Now, they were filled with silence and side glances as Amara packed Malia’s overnight bag, slipping in a note that read:
“Remember: you are kind, strong, and loved. Always.”
Malia, her bright-eyed six-year-old, twirled in her denim jacket, trying to look excited. But Amara knew that look. She’d worn it herself in her twenties — the look of pretending for peace.
Jason’s car pulled up precisely at 9:00 AM. Expensive. Black. Clean like his excuses.
He stepped out with his usual charm-mask and crouched beside Malia.
“Hey, superstar! Ready for Daddy Weekend?”
She nodded and glanced at Amara, searching for something — approval? Reassurance?
Amara smiled softly and kissed her forehead. “Be good, baby. And call me before bed.”
As the car drove off, something inside her ached. Not fear — just helplessness.
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That evening, the call didn’t come.
By 9:30 PM, Amara had called twice. No answer.
At 10:12 PM, her phone rang. Malia’s voice was small. Off.
“Mommy, can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course, love. Always.”
“Daddy said... you’re only working now because you’re jealous. That if you’d been nicer, you wouldn’t be alone.”
Amara’s throat tightened. She blinked, steadying her voice.
“Sweetheart, listen to me. Grown-ups say things when they’re hurt or confused. But Mommy’s not working because of jealousy. I’m working because I love what I do. Just like you love drawing and building LEGO.”
“So... you’re not sad?”
“Sometimes I’m sad. But I’m also proud. And happy. Because I have you. And because I finally get to be me.”
There was silence.
Then a tiny giggle. “Daddy said girls can’t run businesses. I told him he’s wrong. My mommy runs EVERYTHING.”
Amara laughed through the tears that finally escaped.
She hung up and sat back, staring at the ceiling, the weight of co-parenting with a man still trying to control the narrative pressing down on her chest.
She would need to talk to her lawyer. Maybe not a custody battle yet — but documentation. A journal of incidents. Clarity in court if ever needed.
That Sunday evening, when Jason dropped Malia off, he lingered at the gate.
“What you’re doing — letting our daughter think success matters more than family — it’s not healthy.”
Amara didn’t flinch.
“You don’t get to define ‘family’ after breaking it. I’m showing her that love and independence can live in the same house.”
She shut the gate gently, not with rage — but resolve.
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