Part 2
I hadn’t heard the man enter the apartment or the door close behind him yet there he was. A black shadow stood at the end of the hallway. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Just stood there, shrouded in darkness. I couldn’t make out his face or any real features—he was just a form, a silhouette cut from the shadows themselves. My heart should have been racing, instincts screaming at me to run or to grab the kids and protect them. But strangely, I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t even question how he had gotten into my apartment without making a sound.
I glanced back into the room, where Kingston lay on his mattress, still fast asleep. Zuma was curled up next to him, her little hands tucked under her chin. My eyes flicked back to the shadowy figure, a strange calm settling over me. It was as if I had stepped into some other realm, where fear didn’t belong. I took a hesitant step forward.
The shadow seemed to sense my approach. He lifted his head slightly, almost acknowledging me. The air around us grew heavy, thick with unspoken tension. I wanted to say something, to demand an explanation, but the words caught in my throat. Silence stretched on, filling the hallway until it felt like I was sinking into it.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, a whisper that echoed in the stillness. “I am here for the boy.”
A shiver ran down my spine, but still, I felt no fear—only a strange curiosity. I turned my head, looking back at Kingston. His face was soft and serene in sleep, his chest rising and falling with each gentle breath. I looked again at the shadow and then at Zuma, who was just as peaceful, her little curls falling across her forehead.
“What about the girl?” I asked, my voice steady and clear. “What about Zuma? Why only the boy?”
The shadow shifted slightly, as if pondering my question, but his response was immediate. “I am only here for him. I will have to take the boy.”
His words hung in the air, heavy and certain. I should have been terrified, should have begged him to leave my son alone. But instead, I felt strangely detached, as if this encounter was simply a conversation that needed to happen. The only thing I could think to ask was why not both? Why was this something that only Kingston would have to endure? The thought of facing such an ordeal alone felt unfair. In that moment, I didn’t see the shadow as a threat, but more like a messenger, delivering news I couldn’t yet comprehend.
The man in the hallway didn’t answer my silent questions. He just stood there, his form dissolving slightly into the darkness, becoming one with the shadows that surrounded him. I blinked, and he was gone. The hallway was empty once more. The air lifted, the heaviness dissipating, leaving only the echoes of his words behind.
I stood there, staring into the emptiness, my mind reeling from what had just happened. It didn’t make sense, and yet, I wasn’t scared. I went back into the room, looking down at Kingston, who hadn’t stirred at all. I sat down beside him, my thoughts swirling. The shadow’s words repeated in my mind: I will have to take the boy.
I didn’t understand it then. I brushed it off, chalking it up to the stress and exhaustion that had been my constant companions. But a nagging feeling lingered, something shifting that I couldn’t quite grasp. On a whim, I picked up my phone and sent a text to their father—the first time I had reached out since I left eight months earlier. My fingers trembled as I typed, explaining that there had been a stranger in the apartment—a shadow that warned me he was here to take our son. I waited for a response, but none came. As the months passed and life became a whirlwind of adjustments in our new home, I shoved the memory to the back of my mind.
Then, in July, everything changed. Kingston’s diagnosis crashed into our lives like a freight train: metastatic brain and spinal cancer. In the blink of an eye, we were thrust into a new reality of surgeries, treatments, and hospital stays. The shadow man’s words were long forgotten as I fought for Kingston, argued with doctors, and watched my son battle a disease that I could barely understand.
I remember the exact moment the surgeon walked into the room, their face an expressionless mask, hiding behind a veil of sterile concern. “Your son needs brain surgery,” they said, their voice flat, mechanical, almost devoid of humanity. The room grew colder with each word, the air thickening like a vice around my chest. It wasn’t a conversation; it was a decree. There were no options offered, no hint of considering a second opinion or searching for a surgeon who specialized in cases like Kingston’s. It was as if they alone held the keys to his fate, and I, his mother, was simply expected to nod and comply.
I felt anger and fear surge through me, a tidal wave threatening to consume every thought. I wanted to scream, to shake them by the shoulders, and demand, “Wait! Isn’t it my right to ensure this is the best place for him? Shouldn’t I have a say in who holds the knife that will cut into my baby’s brain?” But in that moment, I felt utterly powerless. This wasn’t how it worked—not with pediatric cancer. Not with a diagnosis that seemed to strip away every ounce of control I thought I had as his mother. My rights, my voice, my instincts were drowned out by the sheer authority of their medical protocol.
I was trapped, cornered in that hospital, encircled by their procedures and rules. They didn’t present me with choices; they didn’t suggest consulting other specialists or exploring other facilities. If I so much as hinted at wanting to take Kingston elsewhere, they would report me. The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air: if you attempt to leave, you will endanger your child’s life. In their eyes, that was enough to strip me of any autonomy. It felt like a sentence handed down by some invisible judge, leaving me more prisoner than parent.
Later, I would discover the truth. Hospitals like these don’t always act in the child’s best interest. They’re driven by something else entirely: money. Kingston’s case was lucrative—a rare pediatric cancer that would bring in millions for the hospital. Suddenly, it all made sense. The insistence, the urgency, the dismissive way they brushed off my questions—they weren’t doing this because they were the best, or because it was his only chance. They were doing it because he was worth a fortune to them. To them, he wasn’t a child; he was a commodity.
If I had tried to take him out of their care, they would have used every tool to stop me. They would have reported me to Child Protective Services, claiming I was compromising his health—even though they were the ones who had ignored my pleas for days, dismissed my worries, and only found the cancer after I had screamed my lungs out for someone to listen. And if I did somehow manage to transfer him, they’d make sure it was an ordeal, requiring medical airlift, months of fighting insurance, and navigating endless red tape. By then, who knew what condition he would be in?
Weeks into Kingston’s treatment, I was cut off, banned from the hospital for advocating too fiercely for my son’s care. Desperate, I had no choice but to call their father to take my place, hoping he could be there for Kingston until I found a way back. One night, despite the restraining order that separated us, he texted me: “Do you remember the day you told me about the man in the hallway?”
My breath caught in my throat. The memory surged back like a wave crashing against the shore, bringing with it all the chills and confusion of that day. The man. The shadow. How had I forgotten? I stared at the screen, my heart pounding.
“Oh my God,” I typed back, my hands trembling. “The man told me he would have to take the boy.”
I sat there, my mind racing. Here we were, four months later, Kingston lying paralyzed from a brain surgery that had gone sideways, fighting for his life. The shadow’s words echoed in my mind, louder now, more insistent: I will have to take the boy.
It was like a puzzle piece sliding into place, revealing a picture I hadn’t wanted to see. Was the shadow a warning? A message from some other realm, telling me to brace for what was coming? I had pushed it aside, dismissed it as exhaustion, but now it all came rushing back, chilling me to the bone.
I often forget about that visit from the shadow man. Maybe it’s my mind’s way of protecting me from the what-ifs and regrets. Could I have done something more that day? Could I have changed the course of what was to come? Or was that visit the push that drove me to dig deeper, to fight harder when doctors dismissed our concerns? I’ll never know, but the memory of that hallway encounter lingers, a haunting reminder that some truths arrive like shadows, warning us of storms we can’t yet see.