Page 37 of Love Overdose: St. Louis

“Mama’s right here.”

Tasha guided one leg forward. The toe of his sneaker dragged before his foot landed.

“There we go.”

Malik’s face tightened. A tear slipped down his cheek. I stopped recording.

“We can take a break,” I said.

“He has enough for one more step,” Tasha told me quietly. “If you’re comfortable.”

Every part of me wanted to pull him free. I wanted to lift him into my arms, carry him from the building, and never ask his body to do another difficult thing. But protecting him from every struggle wouldn’t strengthen him.

I wiped his cheek. “One more, baby. Then we’re done.”

His lower lip trembled. Tasha guided his other leg while encouraging him to push. Malik’s knee straightened briefly, then bent again. The trainer rolled forward several inches.

“That’s it,” she said. “All done.”

Relief moved over his face when we released him from the harness and returned him to his wheelchair. He leaned toward me, and I held him to relax him a bit.

“You worked hard,” I whispered against his ear. “Mama is so proud of you.”

Guilt burned behind my eyes. I had heard all the medical explanations. Premature labor happened. Complications happened. Sometimes a woman did everything she was supposed to do and still delivered too early. None of that stopped the thought that returned whenever Malik struggled.

My body did this to him.

I hadn’t carried him long enough. He entered the world too small, surrounded by alarms, tubes, and hands that weren’t mine. His brain endured what it wasn’t ready to endure. Then came cerebral palsy, hydrocephalus, surgeries, and years of therapy asking him to perform movements his body resisted and understand instructions that didn’t always reach him clearly.

I knew I hadn’t chosen any of it, but my guilt didn’t care. Tasha touched my shoulder. “He did well today.”

I blinked away the moisture in my eyes before lifting my face. “He didn’t understand some of the directions.”

“That’s why we keep demonstrating and finding different ways to communicate. He learned from watching you.”

I glanced down at him. His head rested against the wheelchair, exhaustion softening his features.

“He looked so sad.”

“He didn’t enjoy the activities today,” she said. “That doesn’t mean the session was a failure. He tolerated the gait trainer, initiated the reach, and completed the handoff. Those are gains.”

I nodded and thanked her before wheeling Malik toward the exit.

He fell asleep while we were still in the parking lot. I sat behind the wheel for a moment, watching him through the rearview mirror. His head leaned against the support, his lips slightly parted. The guilt remained, but love sat beside it. Love always won. It didn’t erase what hurt; it simply gave me enough strength to carry it. My phone vibrated in the cup holder. Malik’s father’s name appeared on the screen. I answered through the car’s speakers.

“Hello?”

“Hey. Y’all leaving therapy?”

The question surprised me. “We just finished.”

“How’d he do?”

“He worked hard. He’s asleep now.”

“That’s good.”

I started the car. “What’s up?”