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MIA

Brooklyn in July is a war crime on my nostrils.

Hot asphalt, rotting garbage, and the tang of days-old sweat radiating all the way from the dude currently eye-fucking me from across the street.

I keep my gaze locked straight ahead, fingers tightening around the strap of my duffel bag.

My scrubs stick to my back like a second skin. They’re damp from twelve hours of running codes, stitching gashes, and swallowing every catcall of “Hey, sweet thing” that various drunk assholes keep hurling my way as I try to hurry home for Eli’s bedtime.

Sweet thing. The words slither down my spine, oily and familiar.

Brad used to call me that.

Brad, with his whiskey breath and knuckles like sandpaper.

Brad, who’d whisper, “C’mere, sweet thing” right before?—

Nope. Not today, Satan.

I blink hard, shove that unwanted memory back into its coffin, and pick up my pace.

My sneakers slap against cracked concrete, dodging potholes and piles of dog shit. The dollar store on the corner blares reggaeton. Overhead, a dying neon sign whines like a wasp.

A group of teens loitering outside the bodega whistle as I pass. One of them yells, “Damn, ma, you workin’ out or you workin’?”

I do manage to keep my middle finger holstered, but it’s a very close call.

One of these days, I really might let it fly. Tonight, though, I don’t have time to pick fights with teenagers juiced up on vape pens and testosterone.

I’m almost there.

Almost home .

It’s four blocks to my apartment, which means four blocks to Eli. Four blocks to the brief seconds of peace I’ll get burying my face in his sweet, perfect curls.

Then I have to change out of these stained scrubs, bolt back out, and hustle my way to my second job at a bougie med spa in Tribeca, where rich ladies pay eight hundred bucks a pop to get their labia steamed.

No judgment from me, though. I’m glad for the rich ladies.

Mama’s got bills to pay.

I round the corner onto my street—and grit my teeth.

Because there’s a car parked behind mine, blocking me in.

Not just any car. A black Maybach, polished to a liquid shine, prowling in front of my building like a panther in a junkyard. My beat-to-shit sedan—Rhonda the Honda—sits trapped behind it.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I mutter.

I scan the block in search of suspects. At first, I come up empty.

But then— there . Across the street.

A man in a gleaming black suit that looks utterly out of place in this decrepit armpit of the city is pacing the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear. His shoes gleam like obsidian under the streetlight.

The rest of him is just as easy on the eyes. Stormy gray gaze. GQ stubble. Abs that look like you could grate a whole Parmesan cheese wheel on ‘em.

I’m lactose intolerant, but I’d still take a bite out of him.

Or at least, I would—if I had time for that kind of thing.

Which I don’t. My son needs his bedtime story, dammit.

I march over, duffel bag bouncing against my hip. “Hey! You the genius who parked in my spot?”

The man doesn’t look up. Just holds up a finger.

Wait, it says. I’m doing important things.

That’s strike one.

“Excuse me? Sir?” I step into his path.

He side-steps me, still talking. “—said to fucking find her. What part of that was unclear?”

There’s strike two.

I plant myself in front of him, arms crossed. “Listen, Prince Charming. You’re blocking my car, and I’ve got twenty minutes to kiss my kid goodnight before I’m late for work. Move. Your. Shit. ”

For the first time, he actually deigns to glance at me. Those light eyes rake over my scrubs, my frizz-popping ponytail, the sweat stain blooming on my collar.

His mouth twitches.

Not a smile—a dismissal .

He turns away.

Oh, hell no.

Strike three.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool.” I yank my phone out, dial the number on the tow yard sticker plastered to the nearest hydrant, and unleash my sweetest customer service voice.

“Hi! There’s a massive, illegally parked car blocking my driveway on Sutter and Rockaway.

A Maybach. Uh-huh. You can’t miss it. You’ll be here in five minutes? Perfect. You just made my day.”

I hang up and stride into my building. I don’t bother looking back.

Eli’s laughter hits me the second I open the door—high, bright, the sound of ice cream trucks and sidewalk chalk.

He launches off the couch in a blur of Spider-Man pajamas and hugs me around the middle. “Mommy!”

Just like that, my day gets better.

“Whoa, bud!” I catch him mid-leap, staggering back. “Since when do you weigh a thousand pounds?”

“I do not!”

“Could’ve fooled me.” I nuzzle his neck, breathing in baby shampoo and Cheez-It dust. No perfume has ever smelled so good. “You’re turning into a dinosaur. A Tyrannosaurus flex .”

“ Rex ,” Eli corrects, pulling back to frown at me. “And I’m not a dinosaur—I’m a boy.”

“Could’ve fooled me ,” my best friend Kallie chimes in from the kitchenette, where she’s microwaving popcorn. “I found scales in your bed this morning.”

“They were Goldfish!” Eli yelps in horror. But he still starts checking his forearms for signs of scaliness.

I set him down. But as I do, something snags my attention: dirty scuff marks on his shoes. And, now that I’m looking, there’s a rip on the side that wasn’t there this morning.

My smile curdles. These were new Jordans—well, relatively new. Thrifted last month in something close to mint-ish condition.

Now, though, the left toe is split open, foam peeking through like guts. I see his socked pinky toe wiggling in the gap.

“Eli, honey…” I kneel, thumbing the tear. “What happened?”

He shrinks down and mumbles, “Nothing.”

I drop to my knees and clutch him close. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

He keeps squirming, refusing to look at me. That lower lip starts to pout out and tremble, and my heart picks up some trembling of its own. “Some kids at recess… They said I run like a robot.”

“And?”

“And they thought it’d be funny to tie my laces together.” His chin quivers, but he drags his eyes up to mine. “I didn’t cry, though! Not even when Mrs. Alvarez had to cut them apart.”

My chest tightens. I feel all the single mom feelings, same as I always do in situations like this.

Rage at the unfairness of it all.

Fury toward the world that lets such cruelty go unchecked.

Sadness and crippling guilt because I can’t be there to keep my baby safe every minute of the day.

But when I see him watching me, waiting to see how I respond, I do the same as I always do in situations like this: force myself to grin, so he knows that he’s loved.

The rage, fury, sadness, and guilt are for me.

My son gets only my love.

I wink at him. “Guess we’ll have to get you rocket boots next time then. Blast those haters to the moon.”

Eli’s eyes light up. “With lasers?!”

“Obviously! Now, go help Auntie Kallie with the popcorn before she burns it again.”

As he scrambles off, tears forgotten, Kallie sidles over and hip-checks me with a sympathetic smile. “Long day?”

“Aren’t they all?” I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes and sigh. “Shoes will be the death of me, I swear.”

“Don’t stress it, Mama,” she reassures me. “I’ll hit up the Buy Nothing group tomorrow. Someone’s gotta have a size eleven.”

“He’s a twelve now.”

“Shit. Boy is growin’ up fast.”

“Language, Kal.” I point my chin at Eli, who is now enthusiastically shaking the microwave bag.

“Right. Uh, shizz.” Kallie lowers her voice. “You okay, though, for real?”

“Peachy. Just need to pick up three extra shifts, sell a kidney, maybe start an OnlyFans?—”

“Ooh, that’s a good idea. Men love a girl in scrubs.”

I snort as I look down at the murky stain on my thigh. “They sure do. My last patient tonight loved ‘em so much he peed on me.”

“Hm. On second thought, how much do kidneys fetch?”

“Mommy!” Eli shrieks with laughter as he holds up the bag, kernels exploding like gunfire. “It’s alive !”

Half an episode of Bluey later, I’m perched on Eli’s bed, tracing constellations on his palm. His eyelids keep drooping and struggling open as he fights sleep for as long as his stubborn little heart will let him.

“Promise you’ll kiss me goodnight again later?” he mumbles. “When you get home?”

“Promise.” I press my lips to his forehead. “Even if you’re snoring like a walrus.”

“Walruses don’t snore. They… blub .” He mimics a flipper.

“Then I’ll blub you back. Now, sleep, E. Dream about happy things, okay? Rocket boots. Unicorns. Oceans filled with popcorn.”

He smiles. “Okay. I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you, too, superstar.”

When he’s asleep, I tiptoe out, grab my keys, say bye to Kallie, and steel myself for the night.

Outside, I’m relieved to see that the Maybach is gone. Thank Christ. I’m halfway to Rhonda the Honda when?—

“You.”