Reason 5,432,921 I'm Not Taking My Baby Daddy Off of Child Support

Call me bitter... this going to be me!

The screen at Walmart didn’t just flash my total; I swear that mofo hissed like RJ after he's been cornered. I stared at the total—$412.38 to be exact— and felt a hot, metallic rage pool in the back of my throat. I tried to reassess really quick at what was necessary and what could wait... because that was supposed to be the electricity money. After putting back three binders of wide-ruled paper, six packs of glue sticks, those damn Triconderega pencils, three sets of blunt-tip scissors, hand sanitizer, clorox wipes, and whatever I thought to purchase for myself aside it was still $248.31!

I had already stripped my savings bare two weeks ago for the growth-spurt sneaker haul right after some unplanned car repair. Then came the uniforms—two pairs of khaki pants, two pairs of khaki shorts, and five $35 uniform shirts because laundry day was a luxury I rarely have time for. When I realized the oldest needed a scientific calculator that cost more than a tank of gas, I didn’t cry. I didn't have time to cry. I gathered and sold the kids gently used clothes and shoes for forty bucks, swallowing the lump in my throat until it tasted like dust.

The night before school started smelled like hair and panic. I scribbled names onto bookbags, braided and crocheted hair with fingers that shook with exhaustion, and tried not to drink another energy drink. I finished hair, packed lunches and sent the kids to bed. It was 2:30 AM before I laid to bed, but I had done it. Alone. No safety net. No extra shifts that would cut into the few hours I need for sleep. Just pure, unadulterated grit and thirty-seven dollars to my name until Payday.

Although I set every alarm in the house for 5:00 AM... I didn't wake up unitl 6:00 AM and now we're rushing!! I didn't get to make my first day of school posterboards, and I only got a few pictures but by 6:45 AM my babies stepped out into the crisp August morning, buzzing with the electric nervousness of new schools, and new grades. With packed lunchboxes, and backpacks, I started my commute to get them to school. Then wouldn't yall they punk ass daddy was calling my phone trying to see where we were.

We pull up to my oldest daughter's high school and wouldn't yall know he walk up looking just like the Avondale scrub he was: doo rag, black shoes, shorts, and shirts, smiling like he trying out for a toothpaste commercial. In his hand, was his damn iphone, already angled for the gram.

"Hey! Look at my big girl!" the niglet boomed, stepping forward as if he hadn't spent the last six months unemployed, doing his best, and ghosting every single request for school supplies. "Let me get a picture."

A physical wave of heat rushed from my chest to my ears. Not a pencil. Not a composition notebook, not a box of crayons, not a damn pink eraser. Not a single red cent had crossed his palm for these children. But here he was, right on cue, harvesting the aesthetic fruit of MY sweat, blood, and unshed tears for a quick fix of performative fatherhood.

You gotta be fucking kidding me. I'm running up my credit cards, robbing Peter to pay Paul, looking for 3rd shfit jobs, trying to sell spankings... losing my fucking mind and you want to show up to take a picture of what I was able to miraculously accomplish. And just for shits and giggles.

As I pulled away from the curb, watching him shrink in the rearview mirror, the rage didn't fade—it hardened into diamond. I wanted something bad to happen... I wanted to be the one that did it. But... who's going to take care of my kids?

Let him keep his fake pictures. I built this morning out of nothing, and nobody could ever take that away from me