Too Grown For This

The clock on the wall blinked 5:43 AM when Tamika stumbled through the door, her heels clicking unevenly on the cracked tile. The keys in her hand jingled like distant bells, but there was nothing joyful in the sound—just exhaustion.

Janiah was already up, dressed in jeans and a worn gray hoodie. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder, a piece of burnt toast in her hand. She stood in the kitchen like a ghost waiting for daylight.

“Hey, Ma,” she said, eyes still locked on her phone screen, though she wasn’t really reading anything.

Tamika didn’t answer right away. She dropped her purse on the floor with a thud and collapsed on the faded green couch they’d bought secondhand two years ago. One of the cushions had a rip in it, spilling yellow foam like guts. Tamika groaned and kicked off her heels, one bouncing under the coffee table.

“Morning, baby,” she said finally. Her voice was hoarse, the way it got after too many late shifts and too many Newport 100s. “Gettin’ to school early again?”

“Yeah. Got tutoring.”

It was a lie. She didn’t need tutoring—her grades were fine, better than fine—but it sounded more responsible than the truth: I can’t breathe in here.

The apartment reeked of mildew and boiled ramen. Roaches skittered behind the stove when she turned on the light. The walls, once white, had faded to a dull grayish yellow, paint flaking like old skin. Upstairs, the neighbor stomped across the ceiling again—Mr. Brooks, probably up early to work security downtown. He moved like he was trying to crush the past.

Tamika lit a cigarette, even though she promised she wouldn’t smoke indoors. She cracked the window. It barely opened.

“You eat?” she asked.

Janiah held up the burnt toast. “Sort of.”

They sat in silence, the kind that felt heavier than words. The TV in the corner was off. They hadn’t paid the cable bill.

Tamika rubbed her temples, eyes shut tight. “You be careful out there.”

“I always am.”

Janiah slipped out before her mother could say anything else. She was used to doing things alone—meals, homework, even doctor’s visits when she could forge a signature just well enough to get by.

Outside, the sky was still dark. The wind bit at her cheeks, but she liked it. It made her feel real.

She walked past cracked sidewalks and boarded-up corner stores, past old men with paper bags and women talking to themselves. She turned the corner, and with every step, she imagined a life that didn’t feel so temporary.

Maybe today she’d hang out at the library until the bell. Maybe she’d draw in her sketchbook or pretend to do homework just to kill time. It didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that she wasn’t at home.

Not right now.

Not when it felt like home didn’t want her anyway.