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“Hey, baby. What are you doing?”
“Getting a pedicure with Kari.”
“Where?”
“Atlas Nails and Spa.”
“Bet. I’m pulling up on you. Are you hungry? We can grab an early dinner.”
“I’m starving.”
“Ask my baby girl what she wants to eat.”
I rolled my eyes. “Somehow I feel like you like her more than me.”
“I mean, she’s never tried to kill me on multiple occasions.”
I rolled my eyes. “I thought we were past that?”
He chuckled. “Are we though? I still sleep with one eye open.”
“Very funny.” I turned to Kari. “Baby, Ahmad wants to know where you want to eat for dinner.”
She tapped her chin like she was in deep thought. “Pizza Palace!”
I should have guessed that. She loved that place. It was basically like Chuck E. Cheese meets Dave and Busters on steroids. Whenever we went, I prepared myself to be there for hours because she had to play every game at least twice.
“Pizza Palace it is,” Ahmad said.
“Prepare for her to run your pockets,” I warned.
“Papa Ahmad’s got it.”
I smiled. He was wearing that title proudly. I wasn’t sure what made Kari all of a sudden start calling him that until about a week or two after. I was getting her ready for bed when she jumped up and ran to her bookbag.
“I almost forgot to show you my picture, Mommy,” she said, excitedly.
She pulled out her folder and grabbed a paper. Holding it to her chest, she walked back over to where I sat on her bed with a huge smile on her face.
“Close your eyes,” she instructed.
I obliged her. A few seconds later, she told me I could open them. She held up a picture of us with our respective names: Mommy, Makari, Papa Ahmad. She’d gotten us down to a science, from my scrubs to the short budding locs on Ahmad’s head and his tattoos.
“This is beautiful, baby,” I said, smiling. “Can I ask what made you call Ahmad, Papa Ahmad?”
She grinned. Her love for him was evident in her smile.
“We learned about different kinds of families in school today and we had to draw our family. I don’t have a daddy but Mr. Ahmad is like a daddy. He tells me I’m pretty and special to him. He plays with me and buys me things. He reads me bedtime stories and helps me with my homework. Did Grandpa do that for you?”
I nodded. “He did.”
“So that makes him a daddy, right?”
“I can see how you would think that.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. That night I prayed that Ahmad would continue to be everything he was showing himself to be to her. It would not only break her heart, but it would break mine if he didn’t.
“Nala.”
