Page 37

I’M NOT OKAY

It’d been a month since Mula came home. You’d think I’d be happy, right? Got my man back, got my baby, got this big-ass house up in Prince Valley, no more Hurricane... but I felt like I was floating. Numb.

Every day felt the same. I’d wake up with a headache, stare at the ceiling, try to push through the body pain and the random waves of nausea that hit me outta nowhere. Coast would be crying, and I’d sit there watching him, thinking... I should care more than this .

I wanted to. God knows I wanted to, but I didn’t even feel like a mom most days; I just pretended to impress Mula and my family. I kept telling myself I was just tired, that I’d feel better in a few weeks, but I knew better. Deep down, something was wrong.

I was popping Xanax like candy—more than I should, more than I told Mula.

It dulled the edges, made the nights quieter, and helped me pretend I was fine when I wasn’t, but it meant I couldn’t breastfeed.

I had to switch to formula. That shit broke me in ways I couldn’t even say out loud.

Mula didn’t know. I couldn’t let him see me like this.

It started innocently—just letting him have daddy time.

I told myself I needed a break, a shower, a nap.

But the more time passed, the more I felt myself pulling away.

I’d watch Mula hold Coast, rocking him, whispering in his ear, and I’d feel.

.. jealous. Mad that I couldn’t feel that same bond.

Angry that I now had thoughts to be out in the streets more than I wanted to be in this house.

I was anxious and felt like somebody needed to die, and it wasn’t going to be me.

Some days, I’d sit in the nursery with the lights off, holding a bottle with my Glock, staring at the walls, wondering if I was built for this mom life at all.

I kept hearing my voice in my head, dark, deadly.

.. like the old me. The one that wasn’t scared to make a move, to pull a trigger, and to stand on business.

That’s when I told Mula. We were sitting in the kitchen—he was feeding Coast a bottle, and I was pretending to scroll on my phone, looking for a recipe for the night. My chest felt tight, my breath shallow, but I had to get it out.

“I’ve been thinking.”

Mula looked up at me, his eyes dark and patient. “Yeah?”

I hesitated, then dropped it.

“I need to get the gang back right with you. Now that we know the truth about Hurricane... we can’t let the city think we’re soft. Southwave been too quiet. It’s time we move on it.”

Mula sat back, Coast still cradled in his arms, and brows furrowed. “Yumila... you sure? You good to hit the streets after everything?”

I forced a smile, even though my hands were shaking. “I’m fine. I promise. The baby can stay here with Solace or my mom. He doesn’t have to leave.”

He studied me like he didn’t believe it, but he nodded.

“A’ight. We’ll set it up for the weekend since I was headed back there anyway on Saturday. It still ain’t one hundred percent safe... but it’s safe enough. Time for us to touch down again, like you say.”

I nodded back, feeling that dark, twisted satisfaction in my chest, but I wasn’t fine. Not even close. Something was wrong. I knew I had postpartum, but I didn’t wanna claim it. I was too scared.

So I sat there, watching Mula feed our son, while my own hands felt like they didn’t even belong to me. I wasn’t gon’ break. I couldn’t, but I was holding on by a thread.

And I knew it.