After Eight years, Ghenesis Santiago leaves for Atlanta, Ga to try having a relationship with her father and his new family. While having to maintain her senior year in highschool and working with her brother and his Crew under her father's orders...
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Eight Years Later
“Ghen, sweetie—come on now, your cab’ll be here soon,” Aunt Ella called out as she walked into my room, her voice already strained before a deep, throaty cough took over her whole body.
I rushed over, grabbing her arm to steady her. “Auntie, sit down—please. You’re supposed to be resting. The doctor said no overexertion, remember?”
I helped her down onto my bed and tucked a pillow behind her back before returning to my suitcase. I was almost done packing anyway.
Two years. That’s how long it’s been since my mom passed. Stage 4 breast cancer. The doctors had suggested removing both her breasts and starting aggressive chemo. But she refused. Said if God was calling her home, then it was her time. She was gone the next year.
And now… Aunt Ella. She caught hers early, thank God. She’s been on chemo pills ever since and handling it well so far. But I know better than to take her quiet smiles at face value. I see the pain behind her eyes. The tremble in her hands when she thinks I’m not looking.
“I know I should be resting,” she said softly, “but I wanted to see you off.”
I sighed, zipping up my suitcase with a final tug and slinging my duffle over my shoulder. “I still don’t get why I have to go down there,” I said quietly, even though we’ve had this conversation at least ten times.
“I don’t like it either,” she admitted. “But your mama wanted it this way. It’s in her will. You’re supposed to live with your father for your senior year. And hey… you’ll finally meet your brother. Isn’t that a little exciting?”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah, real exciting. I’m sure he’ll love living under the same roof as an abomination.”
She turned toward me sharply, but not with anger—just deep emotion. “Ghenesis… look at me. Kween, look at me.”
My heart clenched a little at the nickname. She’s been calling me that since I was little. Not in a mocking way—but in a way that made me feel seen, even when the world looked away.
I finally turned to face her.
Her tired, glassy eyes met mine as she reached for my hand and laced her fingers between mine. “Forgive, but never forget,” she said, her voice tender. “Not for him. For you. You won’t grow if you keep carrying all this pain.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek, and I swear it cracked something open in me.
I hated seeing her cry. I spent eight years watching my mom cry herself to sleep when she thought I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t be the reason Ella cried too.
