Built for This, Even If I Didn’t Know It Yet — Part 2

My son arrived over eight weeks early, small but mighty, born into a world he wasn’t quite finished preparing for. He came out fighting, as if he already knew he had something to prove.

The NICU became his first home — a place of wires, beeping monitors, and silent prayers. For two months, he lived inside that glass box while I became a fixture in the room. I was there when the doors opened, and only left when they told me I had to. My days blurred into a cycle of kangaroo care, whispered lullabies, and pumping milk through bleary eyes. He couldn't suck yet, but I wanted him to know I was near. That he was loved. That he was not alone. That even if the world felt sterile and strange, his mother was here — skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

They called him “Baby Miller” — nameless and yet fully himself. We hadn't agreed on a name yet. His father insisted he didn’t want a junior. I didn’t mind the idea, but I also hoped we’d name him together — like two parents bringing a son into his own story. But that moment never came. Near the end of his NICU stay, I signed the papers myself. Junior it was — by default.

Bringing him home felt like finally exhaling after holding my breath for months. Our apartment became a new kind of sanctuary. He was what some may call “a good baby” — calm, observant, only crying when his meals were a couple minutes late. He didn’t fuss. He followed a schedule like he came out the womb with a planner. But most of all, he was whole. Developing. Growing. Thriving.

With him home, I wanted to root us in joy. I started traditions — monthly dinners with loved ones including themes, laughter, and warmth. One month was Caribbean night: reggae rhythms in the background, sweet plantains and rice and peas steaming in the kitchen, plates and cups all speaking in the dialect of islands we hadn’t visited but longed to feel. It wasn’t just about fun — it was about staking a claim in the life I was building. I didn’t want motherhood to just be survival. I wanted memories. I wanted legacy.

But survival was knocking louder than I’d like to admit.

My salary — enough when it was just me — suddenly came up short when diapers, formula, baby wipes, and hospital bills entered the scene. That’s when I met the welfare office. I walked in holding shame in one hand and necessity in the other. I was grateful the support existed, but I didn’t want to need it. A bachelor’s degree, work experience, ambition — none of it stretched far enough.

WIC and food stamps became the bridge between what I had and what we needed. And still, I bore the weight of it all. His father was unemployed, angry, spiraling. His fists punched holes in the walls like he was trying to fight the air itself. The rage wasn’t new, just finally exposed.

He was haunted — by a childhood full of wounds, a father he claimed never showed up, a sister he fought instead of hugged, and a mother he felt had left him behind before he could understand what was really happening. Whether misunderstood, misremembered, rooted in some truth, or magnified by pain, his view of his family and childhood was shaped more by memory's weight than reality’s details. His world was wrapped in shadows. Pain had become his only lens. I couldn’t fix it. And he didn’t want to be helped — he just wanted to be heard… and even that wasn’t consistent.

Nights would come when he’d call me from campus parties, phone in hand, forgetting I was still on the line. I’d hear him flirt with other girls, and when I spoke, he’d snap back like waking from a trance. Then came the arrests — fights on SEPTA over nothing more than a look. I’d mention we needed diapers and he’d leave and come back with them… only later did I find out he was stealing them. One day, he brought home the wrong size, and when I asked for the receipt to exchange them, his voice cracked with frustration.

“I can’t return them,” he muttered.
“Why not?”
“Because I stole them.”

I froze. I didn’t have the words—just a tight throat full of sadness and questions.

He always had his phone, a fresh SEPTA pass, and food I hadn’t bought. So I assumed help was coming from somewhere — family, maybe a refund check. I didn’t realize survival had made him reckless. That even he had started to steal just to feel useful.

Some nights he’d stumble in, late and heavy with liquor, a dark cloud following him into our space. Until one night, he broke.

Tears spilled like a dam giving way. He spoke of childhood bullies, abandonment, his father leaving him to start a new life. He wept for the boy who was never comforted, who was taught to fight everything — even love. It poured out of him in thick, aching sobs. And I saw it. I saw all the hurt stitched inside of him, layer after layer, like bricks stacked without mortar.

But I was exhausted too. I was holding a newborn and a man unraveling at the seams. And somewhere in between all the nurturing, I was crumbling silently.

After three to four months on maternity leave, it was time to return to work. But I didn’t want to leave my baby—not yet. My heart wasn’t ready, even if my bank account said otherwise. My pay during leave had been reduced, and my savings were nearly gone. I needed the security, the stability, the routine. I needed to clock in. 

But when I returned, I was met with silence.

No welcome back. No desk. No login credentials.

Instead… I was terminated.

Just like that, the floor dropped beneath me.

And all I could think was—

Now what the hell am I supposed to do?