Harlem’s POV
I knew I was leaving long before I could admit it. Maybe I’d been planning it for weeks and maybe the decision had already lived inside , growing a pair of fangs and claws, waiting for the right night to bite. My father’s voice echoed through the living room like a gunshot. "If you walk out that door, Harlem, don’t bother coming back."
He didn’t raise his tone. He didn’t need to. His words had a way of cutting without volu; emotionless, asured, final. Mom ran out their room and when she saw with my luggage she looked at like I had just put a knife through her. She covered her mouth with her hands and her eyes started to water.
"Harrison, what are you saying? She’s still our child—"
"I said what I said," he interrupted, his eyes still locked on . Cold. Proud. Determined to win whatever ga he thought this was. But this wasn’t a ga. He wanted to sell off; to a man old enough to have known my grandfather. A man who smiled at like I was sothing to unwrap. A man whose cologne slled like rust and money. I literally hated him.
He ca to our house once, with a briefcase full of promises and a laugh that made my skin crawl. He spoke about dowries, alliances, and "responsibility." All I heard was "ownership." And I refused. What was my father thinking? Trying to marry off like this isn’t the 21st Century. I know this was his idea of giving a stable life but I was only 24, I could give myself a stable life. And I know my father owed him for saving his life years back, but I’ll be damned if I’m the one they use to pay the price.
The night I told Papa I wouldn’t do it; he looked at like I’d spat on his pride. "You think you know life because you have dreams?" he asked. "No," I said, voice trembling but clear. "I know life because I’m the one who has to live it."
That was the last normal conversation we ever had. So, I waited until midnight. The house was quiet except for the ticking of the clock. I’d packed my bag earlier; my savings, my passport, a few clothes, a notebook, and the stubborn hope that I’d find sothing better.
When I opened the front door, the night air hit like freedom wrapped in fear. Papa was standing by the stairs. He must’ve known I’d leave. Like Father like daughter, I guess. His eyes t mine, heavy and unreadable. "You really want to do this?"
"Yes, don’t try and stop ." I said. He nodded once, slow. "Then go. And don’t ever co back."
Mama’s cry split the silence. "Harlem, please!" But I couldn’t look back. I was scared that if I did, I’d never leave and that won’t be good for . I smiled a subtle smile at her, turned my back and did exactly what needed to be done. I left.
I walked into the night with shaking hands and a burning chest: not knowing where I was going, only knowing I could never return. That was the night I stopped belonging to anyone.
And maybe... the night I finally started belonging to myself.
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