“What are we going to do now, Mama?” he asked, voice barely above a breath.
I had no answer.
Because the question wasn’t just where we would sleep. It was who we could trust. Where we could go that Quasi couldn’t reach. How you survive the moment you realize the person you married is capable of erasing you with a smile on his face.
If I called the police right now, what would I say?
My husband tried to kill me.
He’s in Chicago.
He has an alibi.
I watched our house burn.
And I have a six-year-old as my witness.
In a city that loved Quasi, respected Quasi, admired Quasi, where he shook hands at charity events and posted perfect family photos that made older women comment things like, “Beautiful Black family,” and “God is good.”
They would look at me like I’d lost my mind.
They would tell me grief does strange things to people. Trauma makes people confused.
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