Page 6 of The One He Desires

Aye, it’s Jamarion. Lock me in and hit me up when you get off. I want to see you and Mimi.

“Well, I guess he’s out.”

I gave Jamarion my number during our pen pal conversations in case he wanted to call on days when he didn’t want to write. His text isn’t a surprise because of the letter I received a while ago, but it still catches me off guard. Jamarion never told me a date or when to expect to hear from him, but knowing that he’s back in the city slightly relieves me. We’ve gotten close over the years, and I’m curious to know what our dynamics will be now that he’s on the outside of the prison walls. Not to mention how he’ll be involved in Milan’s life, or whether he’ll be available to her as her godfather.

Milan has spoken with Jamarion on the phone but has never seen him, so it will be interesting to see whether she takes to him. She calls him JJ because she’s too young to be able to pronounce his full name. It’s the cutest thing to hear, but it also makes me wonder how she might have bonded with BN.

380-521-0853:

It’s rude to read and not respond, J.

I roll my eyes and add his name to my contacts before sending a quick reply.

Me:

Welcome home, Jamarion. I’ll call you later.

Jamarion:

Say less. Enjoy your day.

“Come on, Milan. It’s time for you to go to Nanny and Papi’s house so Mommy can go to work.”

“Yay!” Milan runs to grab her little purse that Mom insisted she have during one of the ventures to the mall.

According to Mom, every little girl should have a purse with her essentials. I have no clue what that means or why it’s necessary, but I choose to mind the business that pays me. Getting between a grandmother and their grandchild has proven to be a waste of my precious time. Milan and I are out the door seconds later as I secure the front door and head to the bank of elevators. We reach the elevator, and I fight the urge to gag when the smell of Old Spice hits my nostrils.

“Top of the morning, Ms. Journee. Howdy, Melan.” My neighbor Elmo, greets me in a cheery voice as I look down at Milan.

“Uh, good morning, Elmo. Her name is Mi-lan, like the animated movie.”

My baby’s face is contorted, and her nose is twisted as she waves her little hand in front of her face. “Stinky, Mommy.”

My lips twitch as I force myself not to respond the way I want to.

“It’s okay, baby.”

“No, Mommy.” Milan continues to frown with an unpleasant expression on her face.

Thankfully, the doors open, and we step inside as Elmo waves and returns to his apartment, granting my baby and me permission to breathe easy again.

“I no like him, Mommy,” Milan tells me, and I giggle lightly because my daughter has formed an opinion about Elmo based on the smell of his cologne.

For me, Elmo is creepy because who comes out of their apartment, only to greet a woman and her child, and then goes back inside when the elevator arrives? It’s strange to me, but I don’t give it much thought as I exit the elevator upon reaching the garage floor. I need to drop Milan off and get to the shop to open on time. I help Milan into her booster seat and then get in, start my car, and turn on Milan’s favorite car tunes.

“Wait, pray, Mommy,” Milan says seconds before I pull out of my assigned spot.

Another Nanny attribute that Milan doesn’t play about that I appreciate.

“I’m sorry, baby. Go ahead and pray.”

“Fader, in da name of Heshua, protek Mommy, Nanny, Papi, Jr., and err body. Cober us in your name. Angels, do your ting. Amen.”

A smile upturns my lips when Milan finishes her morning prayer. Hearing her attempt to say Yeshua always tickles me. But I’m grateful that Mom has been teaching my baby to pray. It’s a continuation of my upbringing that has never failed me during every stage of my life. Every time Milan prays, it reminds me that I need to do a better job of doing so myself. But for now, I’m thankful that my baby prays over me when I don’t take time to do it for myself.

Twenty minutes later, I pull up to my childhood home and park behind Mom in the driveway. I get out, move to the back seat, and open the door to see that Milan has fallen asleep. Even at three, my baby falls asleep seconds into a car ride. I unbuckle her from the restraints and then pick her up as my body protests from her weight.

“I don’t know why you insist on carrying her instead of calling me when you’re about to pull up,” Daddy says from behind me.