Fourth of July came with a different kind of bang that year.
Not from gunshots echoing down alleyways, but from fireworks bursting over rooftops—safe, spectacular, and free for all. Jaylen had teamed up with local organizers to throw the biggest community celebration the Southside had seen in years. No gated events. No VIP. Just block-to-block unity.
The kids ran through the street in red, white, and gold. Zion worked the grill like a pro, and Miss Loretta—who used to scold everyone for stepping on her porch—was handing out lemonade like she'd been waiting her whole life for this moment.
But the real celebration wasn't in the sky. It was in the quiet reunions happening under it.
Jaylen's father, Marcus Sr., showed up.
Uninvited.
Unexpected.
Unapologetic.
He didn't wear the weight of shame. Just a faded hoodie and eyes full of trying.
Jaylen spotted him by the food table, nervously tapping a soda can.
He walked over.
It was awkward. Heavy. Silent.
Then the old man said, "I saw you on the news. I ain't come to make excuses. Just to say... I'm proud. If you'll have me here."
Jaylen didn't speak. Just stared at him for a moment.
Then he nodded once.
"Grab a plate. Burgers are fire."
They ate together on a curb while fireworks exploded above.
Jaylen didn't know if forgiveness would be easy—or even possible. But he knew this was a start.
That night, Isla—Zion's little cousin—asked Jaylen, "What does freedom mean?"
He looked around at the people dancing, laughing, hugging.
"It means being able to choose what kind of story you want to live in," he said. "Even if the first chapters were rough."
The hood didn't change in one night.
But hearts did.