The bed dipped beneath his weight, and the scent of alcohol clung to the air.
Araminta stirred at the feeling of Troy slipping in beside her, his arm lazily draping over her waist. For a moment, she allowed herself to relax into it, rolling over to face him, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips.
He didn't say anything. Neither did she. They just lay there, wrapped in the quiet of early morning, the world outside still hushed.
Then, softly, she asked, "Are you happy?"
Troy exhaled, his breath warm and tinged with whiskey. "Yeah," he murmured.
Her chest tightened.
"And do you—" she hesitated, swallowing, "do you really want us? Me and Samara?"
Again, "Yeah."
But his eyes were closed, and she could smell the liquor on him, and she knew, deep down, that his words were as empty as the bottles he must've emptied the night before.
Still, she let herself believe them, just for a second.
So she took a breath and said, carefully, "What do you think about letting Samara stay at Oscar's for the weekend?"
The shift was instant.
Troy's eyes snapped open, his grip tightening from an embrace to something painful, nails pressing into her skin.
Araminta barely had a second to react before he was sitting up, dragging her with him.
Then, suddenly- A sharp crack rang through the room.
The sting registered before the shock did. She gasped, stumbling back, hand flying to her cheek.
Troy was on his feet now, moving over the bed in one swift motion, rage twisting his features.
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" he barked.
"Never ask me some stupid shit like that again!"
Araminta backed up until she hit the dresser, her chest heaving.
He wasn't done.
"You ungrateful bitch," he seethed. "After everything I do for you, for her, this is what you bring to me? Talking about letting her stay with him?"
Araminta's breath came in shallow gulps. She willed herself to keep her voice steady.
"It's my fault he's in her life," she snapped. "I'm the one who kept her away. And it's stupid, it was stupid of me to think I could keep doing this to her. She wants to know him. She's—she's hurting, Troy."
His nostrils flared. "I don't give a damn," he spat.
"She's got a father right here. I'm her father. I've been her father." His voice turned almost mocking, bitterly.
"But every time I tell her that, she looks at me like I'm fucking crazy. So tell me, Mint—what am I missing?"
Araminta felt her pulse hammering in her throat.
She inhaled sharply, forcing the words out before she could stop herself.
"I tell her you aren't her father."
Silence.
Troy stared at her, his whole body going still.
Then—
"You know what? Fuck you." His lip curled, his hands balling into fists. "I got my own kids to worry about, and here I am breaking my back over yours and your baby daddy shit?"
The second slap came before she could brace for it, sending her reeling against the dresser.
She gasped, hands gripping the edges to steady herself.
When she looked up again, Troy was already heading for the door, shaking his head.
And then he was gone.
Araminta stood frozen, ears ringing, heart pounding.
Her face throbbed.
Her hands shook.
But all she could think was— Thank God Samara wasn't home to see this.
—
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
Araminta went about her routine, her body moving on autopilot, while her mind remained trapped in the morning's events. The sting on her cheek had faded into a dull ache, but the words—You know what? Fuck you.—kept echoing in her head, bouncing off the walls of her skull like a cruel joke.
By the time she pulled up to Samara's school, exhaustion had settled deep in her bones.
And then she saw her.
Samara was standing off to the side near the steps, her small frame shaking with quiet sobs, shoulders curled inward like she was trying to disappear.
Araminta's stomach dropped.
She barely had the car in park before she was out of it, crossing the distance between them in seconds.
"What's wrong?" she asked, already crouching down to her daughter's level.
Samara sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her too-big sweater. "Everyone—" she hiccupped, "—everyone at school is signing up for the Daddy-Daughter Dance." Her lips wobbled.
"And I can't go."
Araminta felt her breath hitch, but she kept her face neutral. "Baby—"
"Tazara is going," Samara cut in, her voice small. "I wanted to go, too."
Araminta swallowed the lump in her throat. She could already hear Troy's voice in her head, mocking her—She's got a father right here.
And now, she was breaking because of it.
Araminta reached out, running a soothing hand over her daughter's tight curls. "Hey, how about this?" she offered, forcing her voice to be light. "When we get home, you can have your favorite snack, and you can play all the games you want. Sound good?"
Samara sniffled again but nodded, her lips still downturned.
Araminta exhaled in relief. "Okay, come on, let's get home."
—
By the time 7:00 p.m. rolled around, Araminta had almost convinced herself that the day was done.
Then came the knock at the door. Her body tensed instantly.
Troy.
She knew this game. He'd show up, full of fake regret and some half-assed apology, and she'd let him back in. She always did.
Bracing herself, she unlocked the door and swung it open—
And immediately slammed it shut.
"No." Her voice was sharp, final. "Not today. We are not doing this."
"Mint, come on—"
"She can't stay at your house for the weekend, Oscar. That's final."
Then, without another word, she locked the door and stormed upstairs.
She barely made it to her bedroom before her knees buckled, and suddenly, she was crying, face buried in her hands as she let everything from the day crash over her.
—
Meanwhile, downstairs, Samara had been playing in the living room, oblivious at first. But when she heard the knock and saw her mother answer the door, something made her pause.
Slowly, she crept toward it.
And when she opened the door opened again, curiosity took over.
Standing on the other side was a man, tall, broad, holding a beautifully wrapped gift box.
"You're getting so big, baby girl."
Samara blinked up at him in awe. There was something... familiar about him. Like she should know who he was, even though she didn't.
The man smiled, kneeling to her level. "Hey there."
She hesitated, shifting on her feet. "Who are you?"
The man's expression softened. "Just a friend of your mom's." He held out the gift.
"For me?"
Samara stared at it, her small hands reaching out, shaking with uncertainty. But she took it anyway. The man nodded, eyes warm. But just as she was about to tear it open she looked at him again, her eyes filled with wonder, but she frowned up at him. "Are you really her friend?"
"Maybe we can talk more about that," he said gently, "but only if your mom says it's okay."
She considered this, then nodded. "Okay."
She set the gift down and ran off.
When she returned, she wasn't holding her toy.
Instead, it was a framed photograph, one she had found under the couch weeks ago and had been playing with on and off.
She held it up. "He kinda looks like you." she giggled
Oscar's breath hitched the moment his eyes landed on it.
It was him.
A much younger version, standing next to Araminta, holding a baby, holding Samara. It was after they divorced, but still they looked happy nonetheless.
He barely registered the frame slipping from his fingers and clattering onto the floor.
His heart pounded.
Then, something made Samara's wide eyes shift to just beyond him, her expression changing from curiosity to alarm.
Oscar slowly turned.
Troy stood at the edge of the yard, a gun in his hand.
His voice was eerily calm.
"Did she tell you to come here?"
Oscar exhaled sharply, hands lifting in a show of peace. "I just wanted to see my daughter, man."
Samara reached down for the picture and pushed it back under the couch
Troy's grip on the gun didn't waver. His lip curled. "So you just show up unannounced? What, you thought you'd sneak in a little visit and leave like shit's sweet?" He scoffed.
"Nah. That ain't how this works. This is my house."
Oscar clenched his jaw. "I ain't sneaking. I knocked, same as anybody else. I ain't seen Samara in two months, two months, man. I just wanted to see her." he ignored the house comment
"And whose fault is that?" Troy snapped.
"You ain't her dad. You don't get to pick and choose when you show up. I'm the one taking care of her, feeding her, putting a roof over her head. You? You just a nigga from off the street thinking you got some claim."
Oscar's chest puffed up, hands clenching at his sides. "I ain't her father?" His voice was sharp, cutting.
"You think just 'cause you playing house, that makes you her dad? You pay one bill and you're her dad? You ain't pay for this got damn house, I did! You ain't shit, Troy. A real man don't put his hands on a woman."
"Yeah nigga, that slap mark ain't fade too well"
His grip on the gun tightened. "Say that again."
Before it could escalate, Araminta came barreling down the stairs, nearly stumbling in her rush. "Samara, move!" she barked, shoving her daughter aside and storming outside.
Samara barely managed to steady herself, still clutching the gift, her wide, terrified eyes locked on the unfolding scene.
On the front lawn, Araminta whirled on Oscar. "What the fuck are you still doing here, Oscar?! I told you, you don't get to just show up, she doesn't know you!"
Oscar's voice cracked with frustration. "You won't let me see her!" He gestured wildly toward Samara, still watching from the door. "That's my daughter, Mint! I just wanted to see my fucking kid!"
"And I said no!" Araminta snapped.
"You ain't got the right to keep her from me!this big nose nigga ain't her father"
Troy stepped in, cutting a glance between them before turning to Oscar with a smirk. "She don't need to see your ass, bro. You ain't her dad. I'm her dad now. That how her momma like it so that's how it's gonna be."
Oscar barked out a bitter laugh. "You?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "You ain't her goddamn father. You just a nigga from off the street who ain't even man enough to not hit a woman. And got three kids you talk to"
That was it.
Troy lunged first, fist flying toward Oscar's jaw. Oscar barely had time to react before he swung back, catching Troy in the ribs.
Araminta screamed, trying to wedge herself between them, but she was shoved back. She hit the ground hard, her breath knocking out of her lungs.
Troy's gun fell.
Everything blurred.
Araminta reached for it.
When she stood again, the gun was in her hands.
She pointed it straight at them.
Both men froze.
No one had come out of the house yet.
The only sound was Samara's sharp, terrified inhale from the doorway.
Troy and Oscar were both breathing hard, blood trickling from their mouths, their fists still raised. But now, their eyes were on her.
Both of them.
Begging.
"Mint," Oscar panted. "Don't."
"Baby," Troy murmured. "Come on. Put it down."
But Araminta couldn't.
Her hands trembled, her breath ragged. She knew, knew, that if she didn't do something now, this would never stop. One of them would come back. One of them would make this happen again.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Troy took a slow step forward.
Then, his hand lashed out, grabbing her wrist and twisting.
The gun shifted, veering away from them—
Straight toward the front door. Straight toward Samara. Samara, standing there, wide-eyed and trembling, still clutching the gift box in her tiny hands.
Araminta gasped.
Oscar lunged, but Troy was faster. He swung, connecting with Oscar's temple, sending him sprawling onto the pavement, dazed.
Araminta struggled against Troy's grip. "Let me go!"
"Nah," Troy breathed, voice low, almost amused. "This shit gotta end now."
He shoved her forward, forcing her to keep aiming.
"You choose, baby." He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.
"The girl... or his ass?"
Tears streamed down Araminta's face as she trembled in Troy's grip, the gun shaking in her hands.
"Samara—run!" she sobbed. "Call 911, baby, please—go!"
Samara hesitated, her little hands clenching at the hem of her dress, her eyes darting between her mother, Oscar, and Troy.
Troy's head snapped toward the girl, his jaw tightening. "Don't you fucking move!"
But Samara did.
She bolted inside.
Troy roared in fury. "Fuck!" His hold on Araminta's wrist tightened painfully, nails digging into her skin. "That little—"
And then
BANG!
The first shot rang out.
Oscar gasped, sprawled against the grass as a red stain blossomed across his shirt.
Araminta screamed.
BANG!
A second shot.
Oscar's head jolted back, hand clutching his stomach, his face contorted in agony. His breath came in wet, ragged gasps.
"No, n- please, troy!" Araminta wailed, fighting against Troy's grip, but his fingers were iron shackles around her wrist.
BANG!
The third shot sent Oscar sprawling onto the pavement, unmoving.
The gun slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the sidewalk.
Araminta choked on a sob, shoving away from Troy and scrambling into the house. She slammed the door shut, twisting the locks with shaking fingers before pressing her back against the wood, gasping for air.
'He made me do it. He made me do it.'
Outside, Troy banged his fist against the door. "Open the fucking door, Mint!"
She shook her head, tears blurring her vision.
"This is your fault too!"
"No, it's not!" she shrieked. "You need to leave! The police are coming, just leave i wont say anything!"
"Fuck you!" Troy snarled.
For a moment, silence.
Then, sirens.
Troy barely had time to turn before red and blue lights flooded the street.
Araminta's breath hitched.
She unlocked the door.
Yanked Troy inside.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" he hissed.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she sobbed, gripping his arm.
"None of this would've happened if I had just listened to you! I didn't tell Oscar to come here, I swear! I didn't—I didn't—"
Troy jerked his arm away, nostrils flaring.
"The cops ain't gonna believe me," he muttered. "They got warrants out on my ass already. You lucky, Mint. Real lucky."
She swallowed hard, nodding frantically. "Don't tell them, please."
Troy's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. "Fine, BUT YOU BETTER HELP ME"
By the time the cops burst in, guns raised, Troy was the only one they saw as a threat.
The moment they grabbed him, Araminta stumbled out onto the lawn, her legs weak beneath her.
She barely processed the questions, barely registered the flashing cameras from the neighbors, barely felt as she whispered out Oscar's name.
When they zipped up the body bag, she knew.
Oscar was dead.
And she had pulled the trigger.
The house was eerily silent when she stepped back inside.
Her limbs felt like lead.
She barely made it through the door before Samara's small voice broke through the hush.
"Mama..."
Araminta lifted her head.
Samara stood there, clutching the gift box to her chest, eyes wet and wide.
She swallowed, her tiny fingers tightening around the edges.
"Who were they?" she whispered.
Araminta's expression darkened. Her lips pursed. Her jaw clenched.
"Shut up."
Samara flinched.
"Go to your room and go to sleep. You shouldn't be awake anyway."
The sharpness in her voice cut deep. Samara blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears from falling.
"B-but... he gave me a present!" she whimpered, holding up the box like proof, proof that the man had been here, that he had seen her, that he had cared.
But Araminta's face twisted into something raw. Furious. Her hand shot out, snatching the box from Samara's trembling hands.
"HE WHAT?!"
Samara gasped, stepping back as Araminta stormed toward the closet. The door yanked open. The box was shoved onto the highest shelf, so high that Samara knew she'd never reach it.
She stood there, small and silent, her breath shaky.
Her mother turned, her gaze sharp and cold.
"I said go to your room."
Samara swallowed hard, staring at her for a long, heavy moment.
Then, without another word—
She turned.
And ran.
Samara knew better than to argue.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she bit her lip hard, sniffling as she turned on her heel and padded toward her room. The walls felt taller, the shadows scarier. Her tiny fingers trembled as she shut the door behind her.
The house was quiet now. Too quiet. A whisper came. Soft. Barely there.
"Samara..."
Her breath caught.
Slowly, she turned toward her window.
And there he was. Faint. The people, the sounds, the pool of blood in their yard faded at his presence. The man from before, the one who had given her the present. His face was pale, his lips slightly parted, his eyes staring through her.
There was red all over him. His chest. His arms. His hands. Samara's breath shuddered.
She opened her mouth—
BANG.
A loud slam rattled the house. She yelped, whirling toward her bedroom door.
Another bang.
And another.
Samara pressed her hands over her ears, eyes squeezing shut. But the noise didn't stoop. It wasn't gunshots, it was her mother. When she opened them again, the man was gone.
But his voice came again.
"Don't forget me, baby girl."
Then more destruction. The rumble of the house. And things she didn't understand
Samara sat frozen, trembling on the couch, her breath shallow, her fingers curling against her knees. Across from her, her mother sat hunched over, staring at the floor as if the answers to everything might somehow appear in the grain of the wood.
Samara's voice was barely above a whisper.
"I never would've thought... I never would've known." She swallowed hard.
"How could you keep this from me for so long?"
Her mother squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head as if the motion alone could erase the years of secrets, the lies, the buried memories.
"I was terrified," she murmured.
Samara let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Terrified? You think that's a good enough answer? You think telling me about this traumatic ass event now—" Her voice cracked, and she forced herself to breathe through it. "Now, after all these years, like you're not implying that some man who should be in prison along with you might come and try to do something to me?"
Her mother's head snapped up, her expression wounded, but Samara was too far gone to stop.
"You wouldn't let my father talk to me. You let some random man get close to me and expected me to just, just accept him like he was my father!"
"Samara..."
"You lied to me!"
"I know," her mother choked out. "I know. I know."
The words sounded weak, like she had nothing left to fight with.
Samara dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. Then she moved.
She dropped to her knees, shoving her hands under the couch, her fingers scraping against dust and forgotten things. Her heart pounded.
And then—She felt it.
Her fingers closed around the edge of a worn photograph.
Slowly, she pulled it out.
Thick dust clung to the surface, the image beneath nearly lost to time. She exhaled sharply, swiping the dust away.
And there they were.
Her father. A younger version of her mother. And a baby, her.
Her throat tightened. She climbed back onto the couch, gripping the photograph in her lap as if it might disappear again.
She exhaled. "I can't help that man get out of prison," she said, her voice quieter now. More certain. "Especially now, knowing what I know."
Her mother inhaled sharply. "I understand," she whispered. "But please, you have to reconsider, think about it. I don't have anyone else?"
Silence.
Samara didn't answer. She didn't have to. The weight of it all pressed down on them, thick and suffocating. Her mother was scared. Samara was scared. And neither of them knew what to do next.
—
Kamala shook her head, staring in utter disbelief as Julia spoke.
"I remember all of it," Julia murmured, arms crossed, her voice tinged with something distant.
"Being a neighbor back then... it was unreal. I saw it all on the news. The interviews Araminta did, the stories that kept going for months after. It was like the whole neighborhood was haunted by it."
Kamala exhaled sharply, shaking her head again. "Jesus."
A heavy silence found It's what between them.
Then Kamala sighed. "Maybe we should go back in there and see what's going on."
Julia nodded, and together, they stepped back out.
Inside, Samara was crying. Her head was down, her fingers clenched into fists, her entire body trembling. Across from her, Araminta sat stiffly, looking hollow and ashamed, as she should.
Julia hesitated before speaking. "Is everything... all right?"
Samara sniffed, lifting her head. Her eyes were red, her voice raw but steady.
"I'm going back to fucking Howard."
Araminta flinched.
Samara swallowed hard, standing to her feet. "My father left me a shit ton of money, and I intend to put it to good motherfucking use by getting the hell away from her."
"But thank you, Miss Mac."
And that was it. No more words. No screaming match. No drawn-out argument.
Just finality.
She turned on her heel and stormed out of the house. Julia shot Kamala a brief look before hurrying after her.
Kamala, however, stayed.
She turned toward Araminta, who sat frozen in place. The older woman slowly lifted her gaze, her expression unreadable. "Are you actually here to say something of substance," she asked, voice hoarse, "or are you just here to berate me too?"
Kamala's jaw tightened. "I love your daughter. A lot."
Araminta let out a hollow chuckle. "Funny way of showing it, being her professor and all."
Kamala ignored the jab. "I know the age gap is... sizable. I know how it looks. But I've seen Samara at her lowest. I don't ever want to see her like that again."
Araminta scoffed. "So what? You're taking her back to DC to fix her?"
"Yes, we're, she's going back to Howard." Kamala's voice was firm. "Or at least, I'm making sure she gets there safely. She'll be somewhere stable, somewhere she can heal, talk things out with someone her age, just I hope fear of someone like Troy creeping back into her life."
Araminta's lips pressed together, her hands clasped, so tightly her knuckles were white.
Kamala sighed. "I'll be back soon enough to help."
That caught Araminta's attention. Her brows pulled together, disbelief flickering in her tired eyes.
"Help?"
Kamala nodded. "I'll help get Troy out on parole if it saves us all the hassle. I was a prosecutor, but I can brush up on my skills for Samara, but only if you stop dealing with him afterward, and get a restraining order against him."
Araminta hesitated.
Kamala's stomach twisted. "You're actually thinking about this?"Another beat of silence.
Finally, Araminta exhaled, rubbing her face. "... Fine."
Kamala nodded, turning toward the door, but just before she left, she paused. She looked back.
"You should never hesitate like that," she said, voice quieter but razor-sharp.
Araminta frowned. "Hesitate like what?"
"To put your daughter before a random man."
Her words struck deep. Kamala could see it in the way Araminta's jaw clenched, in the way she looked away.
Kamala's gaze didn't waver.
"A man who took the one-person Samara wanted to know from her."
Araminta remained silent.
"A man who forced you to choose between killing your daughter or your ex-husband."
That one landed.
The weight of it settled between them, thick and suffocating. Araminta said nothing. She just shook her head, staring down at the floor.
Kamala exhaled, then walked out the door, leaving her alone with the silence.
—
The drive back to Howard was a quiet one. The sound of the radio filled the dead air, but neither Samara nor Kamala made any effort to speak. The outside world whizzed by in the blur of passing cars and unfamiliar streets, and all Samara could do was stare out the window, the hum of the road lulling her into a kind of trance. Kamala drove with quiet concentration, her hands steady on the wheel. She knew Samara needed this space, this silence, and it was the first time in what felt like forever that they were together without any weight hanging between them.
Finally, as they pulled onto campus, Samara broke the silence. It wasn't about her mother, Troy, or her father, it was something else entirely.
"I've got a lot of shit to catch up on," Samara said, her voice low, a bit more resigned than before.
"I'm probably gonna spend the next four days trying to get through it all." She turned to Kamala. "I might not even come to your class."
Kamala nodded, her eyes on the road. "I understand."
"I won't be there for a while either"
Samara paused for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"I'm going back to Baltimore. I need to help my mom get Troy out on parole. She promised she'd get a restraining order against him, and when I come back, I'm going to help you figure out the same for DC and Maryland."
Samara didn't say anything at first, just letting the words sink in.
"That sounds good," she finally said, a note of gratitude mixed with uncertainty in her voice. "Thanks."
Samara hesitated before getting out of the car. She leaned over the seat and pressed a kiss to Kamala's cheek.
Kamala smiled softly as Samara opened the door. "Take care of yourself," Kamala said, though the words felt almost unnecessary. Samara knew. Samara had enough being at rock bottom. As Samara walked toward the entrance, she couldn't shake the feeling that, for the first time in what felt like forever, everything was normal. The weight of the past few days seemed to fade, slipping into the background as she crossed the threshold into her dorm. She expected to find Tazara to be there, maybe waiting on her with one of his usual jokes. But as she pushed the door open, a quiet realization hit her, she was probably in class. Instead of flopping onto her bed in exhaustion, Samara sighed and pulled out her laptop. She sat down at her desk, the familiar rhythm of catching up on schoolwork grounding her. As she scrolled through notes, assignments, and deadlines, she found herself falling back into the routine.
It wasn't that hard. It never was.
And for once in a while, she could just be.
—
Kamala sat outside the dorm for a moment after Samara disappeared through the doors. The quiet, empty space around her felt oddly peaceful, but there was a creeping dread gnawing at her chest. She stared at the dashboard, lost in thought, as she tried to imagine what Troy's parole hearing would even look like.
Would he be remorseful?
Would he just try to convince everyone that he was reformed, ready to change?
Was he even worth defending?
The question lingered, heavy and uncomfortable. Kamala didn't know. She couldn't claim that he deserved it, he didn't. But if it meant keeping him away from Samara, if it meant making sure he stayed as far as possible from the young woman who had already been through enough, she'd do it.
She feared what he could do, really, what he would do.
She'd help him get out, even if it was just to make sure he couldn't hurt Samara anymore.
"All I do, I guess?" She said with a sigh and a weak laugh, Kamala started the car and pulled off, the weight of the decision settling heavily on her shoulders.
The drive back to Baltimore was long, but it gave her time to think. By the time she arrived at her hotel, it felt like an eternity had passed. But it hadn't. Kamala walked into her room, closed the door behind her, and sat down at her desk. Everything felt exactly the same as before, nothing had changed in the world she'd left, but everything felt off now. It was quiet in here, so quiet that she almost couldn't bear it. But there was work to do, and it wasn't the kind of work she could avoid, would avoid.
She pulled out her laptop and started scrolling through Maryland's state parole codes, her eyes scanning the dense text. She had to understand how this process worked, how to navigate it, how to make it work in their favor. She felt out of her depth, but she would float along if she had to.
As much as she didn't want to get her hands dirty with Troy's case, didn't want to touch it with a ten-foot pole.
But if it meant keeping him away from Samara, it was worth the effort.
Even if it was just a temporary solution, something to get them both some breathing room.
January 13th
The sound of trays clattering and voices filling the air was a strange comfort. Samara sat across from Tazara in the bustling dining hall, adjusting back to campus life like nothing had changed. It had only been a few days, but it felt like an eternity. Tazara was, as always, animated and full of energy, catching Samara up on all the little details she'd missed during the brief absence. But Samara's mind kept drifting back to everything Kamala had done for her, and how much she owed her.
They hadn't talked, Kamala didn't answer the phone the few times she called, Samara figured she was buddy. She didn't let her mind race, she couldn't.
"Kamala's out here changing your fams lives, huh? Helping your mom, dealing with that man, AND helping you get your life together? She's like a superhero." Tazara said between bites of her salad, eyes wide as she leaned in.
Samara chuckled softly, nodding. "Yeah, it's kind of insane."
Tazara looked at her, clearly impressed. "And your mom? She's actually going through with the restraining order thing? That's good!"
"Yeah," Samara replied with a sigh. "If Kamala can get her to do it for real, we're in the clear. I guess I won't have to worry about Troy anymore too once she helps me file my own, my mom's giving him what he wants" she said raising her eyebrows
"Good. you won't have to rack your brain about hat stuff anymore" Tazara said, smiling as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. "You've been through enough."
Samara's phone buzzed on the table, and she picked it up without thinking. The notification flashed on the screen:
Troy Harper's parole hearing today.
She stared at the message, her stomach dropping. Troy's parole hearing. She hadn't been thinking about it. She'd thought that part of her life was over, but this—this just brought it all rushing back.
Tazara raised an eyebrow. "Kamala's really going to help him get out?"
Samara exhaled deeply. "I guess so."
Tazara smiled, her expression lightening. "Don't let it stress you out. He'll be out of the picture for good."
Samara nodded, but couldn't shake the feeling that she still had some unfinished business to deal with. She wanted to repay Kamala somehow. The woman had done so much for her, and Samara felt like she had barely given anything in return. Kamala had helped her stand up, and now that her life was starting to feel normal again, she felt like she could do more, something meaningful.
"I just wish I could do something for her, you know?" Samara said, her voice softer now. "She's done so much, and I feel like I should do something in return."
Tazara glanced at her with concern. "Are you okay? You're talking like you're about to drop off the face of the Earth."
Samara laughed, shaking her head. "No, no. I'm fine. I just... I feel different. Like I'm a whole new person, you know?"
Tazara raised an eyebrow, teasing. "Guess that's what ass parents can do to you."
Samara rolled her eyes but smiled. "Yeah, I guess so."
The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Tazara glanced at her watch. "Well, looks like we're splitting up. I've got class, and you've got a free period."
Samara nodded, standing up and grabbing her bag. "Yeah, I'll see you later."
They waved as Tazara headed off toward her economics class, and Samara made her way back to the dorm. As she walked in, she felt a strange sense of peace, like the weight of the past few days had finally lifted, if only a little. Her dorm room felt familiar and comforting, and she immediately went to her desk.
There, in her bag, was the photo she'd found under her mom's couch, the one with her father, her mother, and the baby Samara used to be. It had been sitting there for days, hidden away, as she tried to focus on other things. But now, as she took it out of her bag.
She felt a sudden urge to put it somewhere that felt like it mattered.
She grabbed one of the framed photos from her first day at Howard, carefully removing the picture inside and replacing it with the old photo of her family. She smiled as she placed it gently on her desk, the edges of the frame cool against her fingers.
It felt like something was clicking into place.
Reaching for her phone, she scrolled to Kamala's contact. Her fingers hesitated for just a moment before she started typing:
Samara
Hey, just wanted to say thanks again for everything. You've done so much for me and my mom. I'm not sure if I could ever repay you, but I'll try.