The Mixtape

Even though I’d worked hard to make ends meet, lately it seemed that the struggle bus was driving down the road faster and faster. Each day it felt as if I were seconds away from crashing.

I hated that things had gotten so tight lately, but business was slow at the bar I worked at, which meant less tips. Plus, every job interview I came across never led anywhere. Rent was also late, and I hadn’t yet informed Reese that I wouldn’t be able to make her next camp deposit that was coming up; therefore, no more summer camp. She’d be devastated, as would I for breaking her heart. I wondered if kids knew that when parents had to break their hearts, ours shattered more.

I didn’t know when we’d catch a break.

I stared at my girl, who looked so much like me. Some characteristics I was certain belonged to her father, but I was thankful I didn’t see them. I only saw a beautiful little girl who was perfect in every way.

And her smile?

That smile was kind of like mine. More like my mother’s. Along with the deep dimple in her left cheek.

Thank God for that smile.

She was also blessed with my bad eyesight, which was the reason those thick-framed, round glasses sat against her face. I loved that face so much. It was almost impossible to remember a day when she wasn’t in my life.

You know how my heart shattered daily due to feeling like a failure? Each time Reese smiled, the cracks began to heal. She was my Earth angel, my reason for existing, and every broken crack that my heart suffered, her love fixed.

I moved over to her and ruffled her already messy, tangled brown hair. I’d need to give her loosely coiled hair a deep conditioning session along with a twist-out sooner rather than later, but my urgent concern was dinner that night and how it would come to be. It was a private concern, a secret mental struggle I couldn’t let touch Reese. “You can’t listen to everything everyone says at camp, Reese.”

“Including Ms. Monica and Ms. Rachel and Ms. Kate?” she exclaimed, excited for almost getting permission to ignore her summer camp instructors.

“Everyone except the camp instructors.”

“So,” she said, cocking an eyebrow and picking up her sandwich, “we’re not poor?”

“Well, let’s see. Do you have a bed to sleep on?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“And a house to live in?”

“Uh-huh.”

“A car to get us around?”

“Yeah . . .”

“And even if it’s the butt ends of a sandwich, do you always have food to eat?”

“Yeah.”

“And do you have a mama who loves you?”

She smirked her little shy smirk. “Yeah.”

“Then there is no way we are poor. We have clothes on our backs, a roof over our head, a car to drive, and each other’s love. No one can be poor if they have love.” I said it, and I meant it too. When Reese came into my life, I learned that true wealth was wrapped in her love.

And with her love, I was rich. With her love, I’d never lose hope in tomorrow.

Reese lowered her eyebrows and gave me a stern look. “So, you’re saying Mia and Randy are both full of baloney?”

“Oh yeah, lots and lots of baloney.”

“Mmm, fried baloney sounds good,” she said, biting into her sandwich. “Can we have that for dinner?” she asked.

“Maybe, honey. We’ll see.”

There was a knock at the front door, so I stood to my feet and headed over to answer it. As I opened it, I saw a familiar friendly face standing there.

“Good morning, Abigail.” I smiled at my neighbor. Abigail Preston had lived in the apartment across from me ever since Reese and I moved in over five years ago. She was in her early sixties, lived on her own, and had been nothing but a saint to both Reese and me. On the days when I had to work the night shift, she was more than willing to watch Reese for me. She never asked for anything in return either. Even when I tried to pay her for her kindness, she told me that people shouldn’t be kind in order to reap rewards.

“You do good for the sake of good doing, Emery. That’s how the world keeps on keeping on—because there are good people doing good things for the simple sake of doing them.”

Abigail was a good thing—a great thing, even.

Not only was she kind, but she was a retired therapist, which came in handy five years ago when I was a new mother. Abigail was there to help talk me through my anxiety, through my fears, all free of charge.

I once asked her why she stayed in our apartment building when it was clear that she had plenty of money to live in a nicer location. The story behind her choice was more than enough reason to make my heart smile. It turned out the apartment was the first place she’d ever lived with her now-deceased husband. After he passed away, Abigail went searching for a new place to live, and when she saw that the old apartment was up for rent, she knew she had to get it back.