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Ten years ago, everything changed in a heartbeat. I was just eighteen, fresh out of high school, full of dreams, and ready to start building my life. But then Mama died—just like that—leaving me holding pieces of a broken family. I wasn’t just a kid anymore. I had to grow up overnight. My little brother, Malik, he was only thirteen, scared, angry, and drifting further into the streets every day. And me? I was supposed to keep us both afloat while chasing this crazy dream of mine—my trap salon.
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I remember those nights like they were yesterday. Sitting on the threadbare couch in our cramped apartment, staring at Malik, who was barely speaking, his eyes dark and hollow from the life he was starting to get caught up in.
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“Malik,” I’d say softly, trying to reach him through the silence. “You can’t keep running off with those fools. They’re gonna mess you up.”
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He’d shrug, avoiding my eyes, mumbling, “You don’t get it, Z. You never did. I gotta do what I gotta do.”
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And that hurt the worst. Because I did get it. I understood how the streets called to him—the easy money, the respect, the survival. I felt the same hunger, but I was trying to fight it with something better. I was hustling hard, juggling classes and working two jobs just to get my salon off the ground.
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Every time I came home late, clutching bags of supplies and bills, I’d find the door cracked open, and my heart would skip—hoping it wasn’t Malik out there again. I’d plead, “Please, Malik, just come home. Let me help you.”
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But the streets had a grip on him, and no matter how much I begged, I was losing him.
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“Why you even care?” he snapped one night, voice sharp, eyes burning with frustration. “Mama’s gone. You ain’t my mother.”
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That cut me deep. But I knew he was hurting just as much as I was. We both were. The weight of her death crushed us, but I had to stay strong—not just for me, but for him.
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I’d look at the little corner where I’d set up my salon equipment, those first broken-down chairs and faded mirrors, and tell myself, Keep going. Build something better for both of you.
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But some nights, when I was alone, I’d cry silently, wishing Mama was still here to hold us both and guide us out of the darkness.
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It was a battle every single day—holding on to my dream while watching my brother slip further away. And I promised myself, no matter what, I wouldn’t let the streets win. I’d pull Malik back in, one way or another, and I’d build that salon—our way out.
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