He Said, "Be Mine." Life Said, "Be Ready."

I was hittin’ up Craigslist (remember that jawn?), Monster, Indeed, and one of my longtime favs—Idealist.org. I was grateful—roof over my head, warm meals on the table—but none of it was mine. I was floating in the shelter of my childhood home, anchored only by hope and a stubborn refusal to drown.

I needed a job.

Craigslist, though? Skeptical was an understatement. That site felt like a mixtape of dreams—some tracks hit, others were straight scams.

Still, I found a posting that caught my eye. The details seemed legit—but Craigslist always had a way of dressing up dysfunction in a fresh coat of digital paint.

When the call came through with the interview details, I sent out my own alert. Time, date, address, floor number—every detail passed to family and friends like breadcrumbs on a trail. You don’t just walk into unknowns unarmed. Not in this world. Especially not in North Philly. The address was familiar—nothing outwardly off. But I know better. Even the brightest blocks can cast the darkest shadows. You learn to be cautious, even when everything looks clean.

I stepped into the building and took the elevator to the second floor. But when the doors opened, the hallway greeted me with darkness. Not dim lighting—dark. No sunlight. Where the hell were the windows? Just a stretch of hallway that felt like it swallowed time. The walls were lined with paneling—cheap, wood-toned dividers that boxed in mini offices and closets like a makeshift maze. The carpet beneath my feet was outdated, dark, and dingy—thick with stories and stains it refused to give up.

“Where the hell are the lights?” I whispered.

I was alert, scanning every corner, every door, every shadow. I noticed the faint squeak of the floorboards and muffled sounds drifting from somewhere in the back. But the only thing squeaking... was me. Every step had me thinking someone—or something—was creeping up, but naw. Just my own footsteps. 

My eyes flicked to hidden entryways, exits I couldn’t see, and the people tucked away just out of sight. Everything felt a little too quiet, a little too still—like something was waiting to unfold. So, I called a friend and kept them on the line. If something popped off, I wanted a witness. I could’ve turned around. Maybe I should’ve. But we were in a recession, and the job market was moving like SEPTA on a bad day—late, unpredictable, and full of sighs. I needed this to be real.

Eventually, someone appeared and guided me to the waiting area. Not long after, I was called in. The interview went smooth—too smooth. I walked out with a job title: Office Manager. A nonprofit helping ex-offenders re-enter society with skill-building and certifications. No sex offenders—we had boundaries. We offered hope. A second chance.

Black-owned. Community-driven. Purpose-filled.
But… baby, it was ghetto.

That should’ve been obvious from the jump, right? Still, the people were real. They cared. And I cared too.

Part of my role included conducting intake interviews. That’s how I met him.
Tall. Light skin. Nice maintained fro. Pretty eyes that didn’t know how to look away. Polite to the bone—“Yes, ma’am,” “Yes, sir.” The kind of respect that echoes how he was raised. He told me he was enrolled at Cheyney University. A past legal mishap—expunged. He wanted better and believed our program could help him get there.

I signed him up for our forklift certification program. Simple enough.

Then he started showing up every day.
Somewhere along the way, walking through those doors started to feel like something I wanted, not just needed.

He’d talk about his grandparents, how he’d visit them daily. Said the whole family gathered there—uncles, aunts, cousins. A full house. A full heart. A family man.

He’d slide in convos about the books he was reading—Black history, Black Power. Passion dripped from his voice like honey warmed over low heat.

Say less. I was in.

When he completed the program, we started spending time outside of work. I later found out he lived just blocks away. Convenience turned into chemistry. Let’s just say—we were close. Consistently. Intimately. (You get the picture.)

He became the only one I was seeing. And I didn’t mind. So when he asked me to be his girl, it felt like an easy yes. I wasn’t out here lookin’ for love or labels. We were just vibing. But he asked—and something in me said, why not?

Then… it hit me.

Nausea. Daily. Relentless.
I told my mom and my best friend. Nobody knew what was going on. I tried every over-the-counter elixir known to Black households—Kaopectate, ginger ale, lying still in a dark room. Nothing worked.

Someone joked, “You not pregnant, are you?”

I laughed that off quick. No way. I was on the pill. Faithfully… except for those couple of days I forgot and doubled up.

Still, it didn’t feel real. Not until my best friend went with me to the OBGYN.

Tests were done.
The doctor walked in, grinning like she had tea to spill.

“Congratulations! You’re pregnant. The levels are so high, this wasn’t even a maybe.” She was practically glowing, as if this news were a gift she’d just received for herself.

I sat in silence. Pregnant?
This was never the plan.

Sure, as a little girl, I played house with dreams of picket fences, a husband, three kids, and a dog. But as a grown woman? I stopped chasing that dream. The world was too heavy, too broken. I didn’t want to hand that weight to a child. So I let go of that vision.

But life? Life had other plans.

I hadn’t even met his parents yet. Now I had to meet them carrying their legacy inside me. That felt… heavy. Unfair. Cheap, almost. So when he arranged for dinner, I asked if we could wait to tell them. Just meet first. Let me be first, before becoming the vessel.

He agreed.

His mom cooked spaghetti—one of my favorites. She layered it with love: a slice of cheese hidden beneath, parmesan sprinkled on top. I tried to eat. I wanted to. But morning sickness had other intentions. I excused myself to the bathroom—twice—trying to play it cool.

“You full already?” she asked.

He jumped in, “She had a little something before we got here.”

Then, a few weeks later, she called me.

“Hi Arlicia,” she said gently.

"Hi," I replied, trying to steady my voice, a knot of curiosity tightening. 

"He told me you’re pregnant," she said softly. Then there was a pause—a stillness that hung between us, long enough for me to hear the quiet struggle in her voice, as if she was trying to hold back tears that weren’t born from sadness or joy.

Then she said, “And I want you to know… no matter what happens between you and my son, I’ll always be there for my grandbaby.”

At the time, I received her words as comfort.

But now…
Now I wonder—

Was that a warning?