Chapter 10: The Colored Pencils
That Thursday, Darnell picked Marcus up from school and they went to the art supply store on the corner of Fifth and Madison.
Marcus stood in the colored pencil aisle for a long time, very seriously, the way eight-year-olds consider important decisions.
"These ones," he said finally.
He held up a set of twenty-four.
The box had a small rainbow on the front.
"Good choice." Darnell put them in the basket.
Marcus walked beside him toward the register.
He was quiet for a moment, the way he got sometimes when something was working through him.
"Dad," he said.
"Yeah."
"Are you and Mom still fighting?"
Darnell looked down at him.
"We're working some things out.
Grown-up stuff.
It's not about you."
Marcus nodded slowly.
"Grandma Sandra said sometimes adults have to fix things so kids don't have to worry."
"Grandma Sandra is smart."
"She said you were handling it."
"I am."
Marcus seemed to accept this.
He looked at the basket, then up at his father.
"Are you going to be around more?"
Darnell stopped walking.
He crouched down in the middle of the aisle so he was eye level with his son.
A woman with a cart moved around them without comment.
"Yes," he said.
"I'm going to be around a lot more.
That's already decided."
Marcus looked at him for a moment.
Then he nodded, the way he did when something was settled.
"Okay," he said.
"Can we get the sharpener too?"
Darnell laughed — a real one, from somewhere that had been tight for a long time.
"Yeah," he said.
"We can get the sharpener."
He stood up and put it in the basket.
Marcus walked beside him to the register, the colored pencil box tucked under his arm like something worth protecting.
Outside, the afternoon light was long and gold across the sidewalk.
Marcus took his father's hand without thinking about it — just reached up and held on.
Darnell held on back.
Three years of transfers.
Four thousand two hundred dollars.
A second account with no name.
A boy buying his own notebook with birthday money.
It was over now.
And Marcus had his colored pencils, and his father beside him, and a weeknight dinner every week and every other weekend from here on out.
That was enough.
That was more than enough.
That was everything.
---
*Some parents fight for their children in courtrooms.
Some fight in parking lots and late-night phone calls and quiet conversations in hallways.
But the fight is always the same — making sure a child knows they were worth it.*
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