Page 1 of Stat: Love In Scrubs

T wenty-nine years of celebrating a birthday that should have been shared. Twenty-nine years of honoring my mother on a day that belonged to her, not me. Today marked another year Angel Sinclair would never see, another candle she’d never blow out.

But today was different. The sun had blessed us with warmth all afternoon, and now, as my family and I approached the baseball field, the breeze shifted—not the harsh kind that stings your eyes with dirt, but something gentler.

It caressed my neck and cheekbones, tousled my ponytail through my baseball cap.

It had to be a sign that my mother had found time to be with us in spirit.

At least that was what I’d convinced myself.

I never got the pleasure of meeting her, but with every story my father told, it felt like she was always walking beside me.

Sometimes it was in the little things—like the way Dad’s laugh caught when he got too excited.

For a second, it sounded like she was in it too, leaving just enough behind so I’d never forget her completely.

I exist because a doctor was too busy to listen.

Because nurses dismissed my mother’s pleas as “new mom anxiety.” Because being Black and female in a hospital meant her pain didn’t matter.

After giving birth to me, she cared for me for a whole week while telling the staff that something was wrong.

Chest pressure. An uneasy feeling. They brushed her off, said it was normal, and blamed it on nerves.

Days later, she was gone—taken by a pulmonary embolism that could have been treated.

Her story isn’t rare. Black women are more likely to have their pain minimized, their voices ignored, and their health overlooked. My mother became part of that devastating statistic—a life that should have been saved if someone had listened.

It pisses me off every time I think about the moments stolen from me. Some days, I turn that anger into purpose. Other days, like today, it just sits heavy in my chest, a reminder of everything I lost before I even knew what loss was.

And every headline about another Black woman dying from childbirth complications feels like losing her all over again. The world calls it statistics. For me, it’s a mother I’ll never hug, advice I’ll never hear, and love I’ll never know firsthand.

I shook my head, forcing away the what-ifs before they swallowed me whole. Today was supposed to be about love. My father became everything to me, and for him, I kept moving.

I glanced over at him as he sat next to his girlfriend, Maria, his baseball cap facing backward while she leaned against him, holding the balloons we were set to release.

I brought the cake, and my best friend Darby brought the glasses of wine.

We had a picnic in the center of the baseball field as my dad told stories of my mother, Angel.

The vanilla frosting on Mom’s cake mixed with the smell of fresh-cut grass and the faint scent of Maria’s perfume.

“Man, Angel was wild. She used to get my ass into so much shit back in the day. Her mouth was a lot like Yara’s.

Very unfiltered. She tested my ass good one night.

I took her to a drive-in movie. Some big ass dude who looked as if he had just gotten off the block, and I don’t mean the street, approached her on some disrespectful stuff.

I’m not sure if he thought she was alone or if he gave a damn.

Man, your mother cussed him the hell out, I can assume, because by the time I got out of the bathroom, he was ready to square up with me.

” My dad chuckled at the memory, causing the rest of us to join in laughter.

He shook his head and rubbed his beard the way he always did when talking about Mom, his wedding ring catching the last rays of sunlight.

“What did you do, Leo?” Maria asked with her thick Spanish accent.

We quieted down and waited for my dad’s response. He lifted a brow and craned his head to the side.

“I did the most responsible thing. I took her hand in mine and got the fuck out of dodge. That was the end of that date. We laughed for hours behind that damn incident. I didn’t give a damn about how I looked.”

We were practically in tears. My dad wasn’t a punk by any means, but he damn sure didn’t do things for the fun of it.

“What did my mom say once you got back to your car?” I asked.

“She laughed, talking about, I knew you weren’t going to fight that man, and I’m glad you didn’t because had you gotten beaten up, I would have had to leave you,” he responded in a soft tone filled with attitude, mimicking her voice.

“Now, Dad, you know she didn’t sound like that.” I laughed.

He waved me off. “It’s close.”

I looked around at my circle of people who made my heart continue to beat - the people who pushed me to pursue my dreams, the people I was beyond grateful to have in my life. I was blessed .

We continued talking until the sun set. We lit the candle on my mother’s cake and sat around it, singing Happy Birthday. A lone tear fell as it always did at this part of our tradition. My father wrapped his arm around my shoulder, then leaned down to kiss my temple before wiping my tears away.

“She’s always with you, baby,” he whispered in my ear.

Soon after he said it, a breeze brushed against my jaw and then through my ponytail, causing it to blow in the wind. I smiled, knowing for sure that it was my mother reminding me that my father’s words were true.

Maria stood on the other side of me, then wrapped her arm around my waist. Her touch provided an extra layer of love and warmth.

I had grown accustomed to the love Maria had brought into our dynamic.

She walked into my father’s and my life when I was eight years old.

I remembered the day my dad hesitantly told me he wanted me to meet someone.

I wanted to dislike her so badly because she wasn’t my mother, but she just fit.

She filled in the spaces in my life that I knew even my father couldn’t reach.

No matter how much he loved me, Maria’s presence was needed. A mother.

After a moment of silence, we released the balloons, then silently packed up. Once we had everything, we walked together toward our cars.

Darby already had tissues ready—she’d learned to pack for my emotions years ago. “Wine and BAPS therapy?” she asked, keys already jingling in her hand.

She knew that after we did this for my mom, I rarely preferred to be alone. It was the same way on the anniversary of my mother’s passing. I nodded.

“Alright, baby. Let me know when you make it home,” my dad called out.

“I will. Drive safe!”

For the rest of the night, Darby and I watched BAPS , rewinding our favorite parts over glasses of wine, so much so that she ended up staying over, which was our usual on a day like this.

I was tipsy but not drunk as I sat against my pillowed window seal. I looked up at the dark sky, paying attention to the stars now littered across the sky.

“I pressed my palm against the cool window glass. ‘I hope I’m making you proud, Mom. Little Angels is for you.’ The words fogged the glass—proof I was here, breathing, fighting for kids like me.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but tonight belonged to memory, wine, and the family built from broken pieces.

Welcome to Little Angels Academy

The weekend had come and gone so quickly, but I was beyond excited to get back to work. Little Angels Academy was a labor of love. I didn’t even consider this place my job. Every day when I walked through those double doors, my heart fluttered.

We built Little Angels Academy in my mother’s honor, but it was more than that.

Kids’ laughter ricocheted down the hallway, mixing with the smell of crayons and disinfectant.

Someone was always singing off-key in music class.

It was chaos, but it was ours. When I was younger, I always felt left out amongst other kids.

I would hear them talk about all the things they would do with their moms, yet I didn’t have those interactions.

At least, not until I was older and Maria came into my life, but the void was still there, even with all the work my father did to make me feel as if I wasn’t missing out.

This place had created a safe space for kids who lost their mothers, either during or after childbirth.

We ensured that we had doctors, therapists, and motherly figures on staff to help advance their development.

This place was funded by the lawsuit that my father won against the hospital where I was born.

It wasn’t here in Silverrun, but it wasn’t too far.

The doctors openly ignored my mother’s concerns, and so did the nurses. My mother had every symptom that would require them to take a second look, but they didn’t. If only they had done their jobs, my mom would be here today.

I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the feelings that came over me at the thought. My father had reiterated to me countless times that we couldn’t change the way things happened. Even though I knew what he was saying was true, it never changed the pain I felt because of her loss.

We ended up with a nice enough settlement that allowed us to build this place once I graduated from college.

My father never spent the money he won in the lawsuit.

The way he told it, he couldn’t because it didn’t feel right.

To him, it felt like he was accepting money in exchange for her life, and if he was given the choice, he’d give it all back for her.

The feeling was mutual. When I became old enough, he told me about the money and how we got it, but using it for anything material-wise just didn’t feel right.

It was how we came up with this place. The majority of the money went into the build and the salaries of the people who were a part of this.

We didn’t believe in charging the parents more than what would go toward the development of their children.