Page 30 of My Only (My First, My Last)

H assani

I pulled into the parking lot of the shopping strip in Long Island City, Queens.

It was early, but Island Rise Bakery was already buzzing with life—people coming in and out, some balancing boxes of baked goods in their hands, others lingering outside to chat before heading to work.

I smiled. My parents’ bakery. My second home. My first job.

From the time I was a baby, my parents brought me here, back when the business was just starting out.

My dad always says it was my mom’s idea.

Her way of investing instead of spending his tax refund on new furniture.

She’d been baking since she was a kid, and she knew she could make a living doing it. And she was right.

Now, the bakery was a Long Island City staple—a bright yellow-and-green awning stretched over the entrance, proudly displaying Island Rise Bakery in bold script. I didn’t even have to step inside to take in the scent of fresh spice buns, patties, and warm hard dough bread.

Normally, I’d appreciate the sight, the smell, the familiarity of it all. But today?

I didn’t want to be here. Not for this .

Hours earlier, I saw Ayla for the first time since she told me she wanted a divorce. Two days. That’s how long she’d been locking me out—sleeping in the guest room, avoiding conversation. This morning was the first time we’d touched, and even though we’d hooked up in the kitchen…

Something was off.

I knew it. She knew it. And I still couldn’t make sense of it.

With a deep sigh, I stared up at the bakery’s awning before stepping out of my car. I wasn’t here for the food, or even to check in on my mom.

I was here for my father.

After 9/11, when most of his colleagues never made it home, my dad never went back to work anywhere else. He’d grieved in his own way, pouring himself into the bakery alongside my mother. He never left. And I never forgot.

That day changed everything for both of us.

One of the colleagues he lost was Ayla’s father.

And the little girl that colleague left behind? The one who used to call my house at one in the morning just to cry into the phone?

She became mine.

I shook my head, forcing myself back to the present. I didn’t have time to get lost in the past. I had to be in Manhattan in an hour. I was already late. But at that moment, nothing mattered except getting the advice I came here for.

I pushed open the glass door, immediately met with the warm, sweet aroma of baking bread and fresh patties.

“Morning, Hassani!” Mrs. Douglas, one of the bakery’s regulars, greeted from the counter.

The other patrons present also greeted me in waves.

I lifted my hand in a wave. “Mornin’, y’all.”

The moment my mother spotted me from behind the register, her face lit up. She moved from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling me into a hug that made me bend my knees just to fit.

“What a sweet surprise,” she smiled brightly, stepping back to scan me head to toe—a habit she’s never grown out of. “But bwoy … you look run down.”

I snorted a laugh. “Thanks, Ma.”

“Nah, man, I’m serious,” she said, hazel-green eyes narrowing with concern. “You look tired.”

I exhaled. “I really am.”

She studied me for a second longer, then tapped my shoulder. “You’re working too hard, Hassani.” Then, tilting her head slightly to see around me, she asked, “Where’s my daughter?”

The mention of Ayla twisted something inside me, but I kept my expression neutral.

“She’s home, resting,” I said, scratching the back of my head. “I’m heading into the city soon, but I need to talk to Dad real quick.”

“He’s back there,” she said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Go see him, and I’ll have some fresh spice buns waiting when you get back. Don’t forget to carry some home to Ayla.”

“Aight.” I forced a smile. “Sounds good, Ma.”

She gave me that mom-look, the one that meant she wasn’t buying it. “You sure you’re all right?”

Not in the least.

“I’m good, Ma. I’m good.” I pointed over her shoulder. “I’m gonna go talk to Dad.”

“Go ‘head.” She squeezed my arm once before turning back to the counter.

I pushed through the kitchen doors.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of fresh pastries and flour, the ovens humming quietly in the background. My father was pulling a large baking sheet of golden-brown patties from one of the commercial racks when he glanced up, doing a double take when he saw me.

His brows lifted. “Mornin’, son.”

I stopped just inside the doorway. “Mornin’, Dad.”

My dad had always been in great shape, but ever since he started working full-time at the bakery—lifting trays, kneading dough, moving sacks of flour—he’d bulked up even more. Early sixties, but he could pass for forty easy.

He set the tray of patties down on the steel counter, dusting his hands as he turned to face me.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

I let out a slow breath through my nose.

Immediately, his shoulders lost height. His whole stance shifted.

“What happened?”

I swallowed. “Ayla said she wants a divorce.”

His chest caved in slightly as he gripped the metal counter for support. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head before turning away.

I ran a hand down my beard. “The night I came back from the billiard hall with you, she was waiting in the kitchen… wanted to know where I was.”

“ Mm-hmm ,” he muttered, already knowing where this was going.

“And, yeah…” I scratched the back of my head. “I told her… I was with Harper.”

My father sucked his teeth so loudly it echoed. “Hassani!”

“She asked if I was with her,” I defended, stepping deeper into the kitchen. “I didn’t want to lie.”

“She ask yuh , and yuh just hand her di answer?” he sneered, shaking his head. “ Mi nah tell yuh fi fabricate nuttin ’, but Hassani… yuh don’t know when fi be a smart man and justomit?”

“She didn’t give me room to. She didn’t even let me explain! She just stormed off, locked herself in the guest room, and she’s been sleeping there for two damn nights?—”

“ Shh , shh !” My father waved a hand through the air, shutting me up instantly. “ Bwoy , yuh nuh have no sense?! Yuh a tell me too much.”

I clenched my jaw and stopped talking.

Whenever my father got pissed, Patois, as always, jumped in and out of the chat. That’s how I knew he was really mad.

He took a deep audible breath to settle himself, raising a hand before continuing.

“Your marriage is your marriage,” he said, calmer, fixing me with a look. “Venting to the wrong people, even family…” He held up a finger. “Won’t fix things. Overstand ?”

I nodded.

“Fixing your marriage,” he continued, pointing directly at me, “should be your focus. Not telling me how bad it is.”

He gestured toward the back of the kitchen. “Come. I don’t want your mother overhearing any of this.”

I followed him past the ovens, the scent of warm coco bread lingering in the air. Soon, the other bakers would be here, starting on the next round of pastries.

But right now, this talk? This was urgent.

My father turned to face me, crossing his arms. “Your first mistake?” He held up a single finger. “Letting her sleep in another room.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You should’ve never let her sleep in another bed,” he said firmly. “ Never .” He swiped a hand through the air. “That was your first mistake.”

“Okay…?”

“Your second mistake? Was going to sleep angry,” he added. “So, make sure yuh following me.” He held up his hand and used his fingers to count off. “You never go to sleep angry, and you damn sure don’t sleep in separate rooms when you’re angry. You hearing me?”

“I hear you,” I mumbled, nodding.

When it came to relationships, my father understood what made them work. Whether it was friendships, family, or his marriage to my mother, he just knew how to keep them intact.

It’s probably why Ayla’s father respected him enough to invite him over for dinner at their brand-new house, all those years ago. A silent way of saying, “You’re like family now.”

I exhaled. “So what do I do?”

His face scrunched up. “Excuse me?”

I frowned. “Tell me what to do.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I will not tell you what to do, Hassani.”

I blinked hard. “Dad?—”

“Dad what?!” He laughed, and I wasn’t even close to finding this shit funny.

“This is your marriage,” he pressed, jabbing a finger into my chest. “ Yours . You understand it better than you think. Better than me, I tell you that. You know what it will take to change Ayla’s mind.”

“I already tried that this morning,” I grumbled, referring to our random ass hook up in our kitchen. “Didn’t work.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Now you know what doesn’t work. Now try something else. And if that doesn’t work? Try something else. Keep trying until you find what works.”

I exhaled sharply, running a hand over my head.

“Let’s say I tell you what to do,” my father continued. “Let’s say I give you the magic answer, and it works. What happens next time, hmm ?”

I turned to face him, brows furrowed.

“You’ll come back to me again? And again?” He scoffed. “And again and again?” He sucked his teeth. “Look yah , bwoy . Mi nah yuh marriage 8-ball, Hassani.”

I dropped my head to my chest, letting it hang there.

“Lift yuh head, bwoy !”

I snapped up immediately, swallowing back the feeling of defeat.

“Because you know you’ll have another falling out with Ayla, right?” His lips curled into a smirk. “This isn’t going to be the last time you two butt heads.”

I ground my teeth together. “She told me she wants a divorce, Dad.” My voice cracked slightly as I pressed my hands together. “A divorce.”

My father sucked his teeth. “She don’t want no divorce.”

“She said she did.”

“Because she’s pissed ,” he said, like it was obvious. “You were out with another woman after work hours, bwoy . What did you expect? Applause?”

I clenched my jaw. He was right, but damn.

“You think Ayla’s gonna celebrate that shit?” he pressed. “She’s mad. That’s why she said it.”

I let out a frustrated groan, rubbing both hands down my face.

The worst part?