Chapter One: "Something Like a Beginning"
The first days after Kingsley's birth felt like a dream Andra wasn't sure she had woken up from.
The baby was tiny—so tiny—his skin like soft caramel, his cries delicate and unsure, as though even he was trying to adjust to the world. Parker, to his credit, had been present. He'd hovered at the hospital, held her hand during the contractions, cut the umbilical cord with shaking fingers, and cried—really cried—when he saw their son for the first time.
It had been one of the rare moments when Andra felt like they could actually work. Like maybe love could stretch to fill all the gaps reality left behind.
Now, two weeks in, their small room at her parents' house smelled of baby oil and powder, diapers stacked like miniature pillows in the corner. Parker had taken over the left side of the bed, sleeping shirtless and snoring lightly, while Andra rocked Kingsley on the right, watching the slow rhythm of his tiny chest rise and fall.
Her body still felt foreign. Her back ached, her breasts were sore, and some days she cried just because a commercial was too emotional. But Kingsley—he made it all worth it.
There was a soft knock at the door.
"Andra?" her mother whispered from the hallway.
"Yeah, Mom. Come in."
Her mother pushed the door open and stepped in with a steaming bowl of soup. Her smile was soft, tired around the eyes. "You didn't eat dinner again."
"I wasn't hungry."
"You need to keep your strength, honey."
Andra gave a weak smile and shifted as her mom placed the bowl on the nightstand. Parker stirred beside her, opening one eye.
"Hey, Mama Summers," he said, voice thick with sleep.
Her mother raised an eyebrow. "Still here?"
Parker grinned. "Still here."
"Hmm." She left without another word, but the corners of her mouth tugged up as she closed the door behind her.
Andra looked down at Kingsley, who had started suckling at her shoulder.
"I think she likes you," she murmured.
Parker smirked. "I think she tolerates me."
"You're lucky she tolerates you at all."
He sat up and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm trying, Andra."
"I know," she said. And she did. He had been trying—he just hadn't been consistent.
Parker had dreams, big ones. He wanted to be a politician. A voice for the youth. A builder of futures. He talked about community cleanups and mentorship programs. About running for local office in a few years.
But in the meantime, there were photoshoots here and there. Hustling, he called it. Sometimes he had money. Most times he didn't.
Still, Andra couldn't deny the tenderness in how he held their son, or the way he called Kingsley "my champ" and kissed his forehead like he was royalty.
"You should sleep," Parker said now, gently lifting Kingsley from her arms. "Let me take him for a bit."
She hesitated.
"I'll just walk him up and down the hall, okay?"
Andra nodded, grateful, watching as Parker tucked the baby against his chest and tiptoed out of the room like he'd done this a thousand times before.
She lay back, closing her eyes, the faint creak of the hallway floorboards a comfort rather than a disturbance.
This wasn't the life she had planned. She was supposed to finish school first, get a job, maybe travel. Instead, she was here—twenty-four, broke, tired, and terrified.
But in between the fears and the fatigue, there was something else blooming too.
A quiet, unshakable kind of love.
Love for the boy who barely fit in her arms.
Love for the boy's father—who was trying, even if imperfectly.
Love for her parents, who had not once made her feel like she had failed them, despite everything.