Nyara pov
The apartment felt different, alive. Iyla's laughter, a bright, tinkling sound, echoed through the usually quiet space. It was my first day, my first night, as a mother. And honestly, I was terrified.
Iyla was a whirlwind of energy, exploring every corner of the apartment, her tan teddy bear clutched tightly in her arms. "Mommy, what's this?" she'd ask, pointing at a vase, a lamp, a framed picture. Each question was a gentle reminder that my life had irrevocably changed.
"That's a vase, sweetie. We put flowers in it," I'd explain, my voice softer than I remembered it being. I was learning to talk in a different way, a mother's way.
We played with her new crayons and paper, drawing stars and silly faces. Iyla's drawings were a chaotic explosion of color, but they were her creations, and she was so proud. I watched her, a strange mix of joy and apprehension swirling inside me. Was I ready for this? Was I capable?
"Mommy, tell me a story," she'd plead, her big eyes wide and expectant. I scrambled, pulling together bits and pieces of fairy tales and made-up adventures, trying to keep her entertained. It was exhausting, but I found a strange sense of fulfillment in her wide-eyed wonder.
As the sun began to set, I decided to make dinner. Iyla sat at the kitchen island, swinging her legs, watching me chop vegetables. "What are you making, Mommy?" she asked.
"Chicken and veggies, baby. Do you like chicken?"
"Yes! I like chicken!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
While the chicken simmered, my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID – Mom. My heart skipped a beat. I'd completely forgotten to tell them about Iyla. Panic tightened my chest.
"Hey, Mom," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Nyara, darling! How are you? We were so worried when we heard you were at the hospital!" Her voice was filled with concern.
"I'm fine, Mom. It was just a… a friend. She had a little accident," I lied, my voice tight.
"A friend? Well, we're glad you're alright. We were thinking, maybe you should come home for a few days. We miss you."
"No, Mom, I'm fine here. I have a lot going on," I said, my voice rising slightly.
"Darling, you sound stressed. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes, Mom, I'm fine. I'll call you later," I said, quickly ending the call.
I sighed, my heart pounding. I couldn't tell them yet. Not until I was sure. I was terrified of their reaction. They'd want me to move back home, to put Iyla into the same gilded cage I'd grown up in. They wouldn't understand that I needed to do this on my own.
After dinner, I tucked Iyla into my bed, reading her a story until she drifted off to sleep. Her small, peaceful face filled me with a sense of overwhelming responsibility. This was my life now.
Once she was asleep, I sat down at my laptop, a sense of urgency washing over me. I needed to get Iyla's official documents sorted. I navigated to the Social Security Administration website, filling out the online forms.
"What's your birthday, Iyla?" I asked, looking at her sleeping form.
"August teneth," she mumbled half sleep.
"August tenth," I whispered, smiling. If she just turned five, that would make her birth year... 3721? I chuckled to myself. I entered the information, then paused at the "Place of Birth" field. Home birth. I typed it in, hoping it wouldn't raise any red flags.
After submitting the forms, a message popped up: File will be processed and sent to your address by the end of the day. I sighed in relief. Being wealthy had its perks.
I looked around the apartment, now filled with Iyla's toys and drawings. It was a far cry from my old life of parties and galas. But as I watched Iyla sleep, a strange sense of peace settled over me. This was my life now, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. This small child, this incredible responsibility, was mine. And I would figure it out, one day at a time.