Building up

Xavier Tate is twenty-six, 6'2", medium-brown skin, and the kind of face that people remember — wide cheekbones, a ready grin, long soft hair that falls in loose curls and that he sometimes braids or ties back, stud earrings glinting when he smiles. He keeps his body lean and athletic; years of work and late-night walks have given him a fit physique and a slim waist. Ink trails across his right arm and a bold piece on his left thigh peek out from under sleeves and jeans — private stories that his tattoos keep. People call him handsome; his eyes keep you longer than you expect. He grew up in a household that was steady at first. His parents, Marcus and Lissette Tate, met young, worked hard, and dreamed loud. Marcus ran a small construction subcontracting business; Lissette did office work and kept a warm, slightly chaotic home that smelled of coffee and cinnamon. For a while the money came in steady enough to pay the bills and to let the kids—Xavier and his little sister Kamaria—go to the school plays and get new sneakers. There were evenings when the family sat around the chipped kitchen table and argued about everything from politics to who’d washed the dishes. Those were ordinary, very human days, and Xavier remembers them with a particular ache. Everything shifted the year Xavier turned seventeen. Marcus trusted the wrong person — his closest friend, someone Marcus had taken under his wing when they were both starting out. Lissette and Marcus had always been close to this man; he’d been in and out of the house, joking with the kids, fixing minor things on the truck. One late winter, the trust crumbled: Marcus’s friend and Lissette disappeared together with the family’s savings, closing bank accounts, leaving chains of forged signatures and invoices. The bills piled up; the subcontracting work dried up without funds or reputation. Marcus, who had been the rock of the family, broke in a way no one knew how to fix. The humiliation and the financial ruin were sudden and brutal. Marcus’s grief was private, swallowed into silence that widened into weeks. One night, after a terse argument and a stretch of months of desperation, Marcus took his life. Xavier found the aftermath: the stunned neighbors, the church with its folding chairs, the little boy in the casket who’d been his father. At seventeen, Xavier became the adult in a house he couldn’t quite afford. He was raw with grief and furious with a world that had betrayed him. Kamaria—ten at the time—became Xavier’s lodestar. She was beautiful in a way that made people smile: long black curls, a gentle face, and eyes that listened. Where Xavier learned to harden, Kamaria stayed soft. She was shy but fast to laugh; she loved books and drew careful pictures of the city skyline. Xavier vowed, in the half-formed language of grief and obligation, to keep her safe. College slipped away. Tuition looked like a private joke when there wasn’t even enough for rent. Xavier took three jobs, one after the other, strung through dawn, afternoon, and night: barista at a bodega café (early mornings), a security shift at a downtown garage (afternoons), and late-night deliveries for an app service to make ends meet. He learned to split his life into neat, repetitive blocks; exhaustion became a second skin. He fixed the house’s broken windows himself, learned the mail schedule, and learned which neighbors would lend flour and which would not. The Bronx became less of a place and more of a set of routines: the corner store where the cashier saved his shift coffee, the stoop where Kamaria practiced scales on a battered keyboard, the landlord who considered missed rent with a mechanical indifference. Romantic life, when it existed, collided with his responsibilities. He dated three women over the years—Charlotte Ramirez, Sophia Bryant, and Hannah Bianchi—and each relationship started as breathless hope and ended bruised and ashamed for the same reason: money. Xavier gave what he had—attention, tenderness, loyalty—but he couldn’t promise dates, vacations, or expensive gifts. “He’s too broke,” they said, not unkindly at first, but their words hardened into a reason to leave. Each breakup left a hollow in his chest Xavier tried to cover with the next shift and a joke for Kamaria. Then the past circled back in a way he hadn’t expected. On the same day, each of those women appeared at his door carrying a child and a paternity test. Charlotte came with Zaiden, six years old, wide eyes and the exact same smile as Xavier; Sophia arrived with Milo, four, who chased pigeons with the same light step; Hannah brought tiny Nayela, two, who clung to her mother but reached for Xavier like a magnet. The tests — clinical, legal, cold — all said what his bones already suspected: they were his. Each child looked like a mirror turned toward his own features: his lips, the tilt of his chin, the curl of his eyelashes.

Building up

Xavier Tate is twenty-six, 6'2", medium-brown skin, and the kind of face that people remember — wide cheekbones, a ready grin, long soft hair that falls in loose curls and that he sometimes braids or ties back, stud earrings glinting when he smiles. He keeps his body lean and athletic; years of work and late-night walks have given him a fit physique and a slim waist. Ink trails across his right arm and a bold piece on his left thigh peek out from under sleeves and jeans — private stories that his tattoos keep. People call him handsome; his eyes keep you longer than you expect. He grew up in a household that was steady at first. His parents, Marcus and Lissette Tate, met young, worked hard, and dreamed loud. Marcus ran a small construction subcontracting business; Lissette did office work and kept a warm, slightly chaotic home that smelled of coffee and cinnamon. For a while the money came in steady enough to pay the bills and to let the kids—Xavier and his little sister Kamaria—go to the school plays and get new sneakers. There were evenings when the family sat around the chipped kitchen table and argued about everything from politics to who’d washed the dishes. Those were ordinary, very human days, and Xavier remembers them with a particular ache. Everything shifted the year Xavier turned seventeen. Marcus trusted the wrong person — his closest friend, someone Marcus had taken under his wing when they were both starting out. Lissette and Marcus had always been close to this man; he’d been in and out of the house, joking with the kids, fixing minor things on the truck. One late winter, the trust crumbled: Marcus’s friend and Lissette disappeared together with the family’s savings, closing bank accounts, leaving chains of forged signatures and invoices. The bills piled up; the subcontracting work dried up without funds or reputation. Marcus, who had been the rock of the family, broke in a way no one knew how to fix. The humiliation and the financial ruin were sudden and brutal. Marcus’s grief was private, swallowed into silence that widened into weeks. One night, after a terse argument and a stretch of months of desperation, Marcus took his life. Xavier found the aftermath: the stunned neighbors, the church with its folding chairs, the little boy in the casket who’d been his father. At seventeen, Xavier became the adult in a house he couldn’t quite afford. He was raw with grief and furious with a world that had betrayed him. Kamaria—ten at the time—became Xavier’s lodestar. She was beautiful in a way that made people smile: long black curls, a gentle face, and eyes that listened. Where Xavier learned to harden, Kamaria stayed soft. She was shy but fast to laugh; she loved books and drew careful pictures of the city skyline. Xavier vowed, in the half-formed language of grief and obligation, to keep her safe. College slipped away. Tuition looked like a private joke when there wasn’t even enough for rent. Xavier took three jobs, one after the other, strung through dawn, afternoon, and night: barista at a bodega café (early mornings), a security shift at a downtown garage (afternoons), and late-night deliveries for an app service to make ends meet. He learned to split his life into neat, repetitive blocks; exhaustion became a second skin. He fixed the house’s broken windows himself, learned the mail schedule, and learned which neighbors would lend flour and which would not. The Bronx became less of a place and more of a set of routines: the corner store where the cashier saved his shift coffee, the stoop where Kamaria practiced scales on a battered keyboard, the landlord who considered missed rent with a mechanical indifference. Romantic life, when it existed, collided with his responsibilities. He dated three women over the years—Charlotte Ramirez, Sophia Bryant, and Hannah Bianchi—and each relationship started as breathless hope and ended bruised and ashamed for the same reason: money. Xavier gave what he had—attention, tenderness, loyalty—but he couldn’t promise dates, vacations, or expensive gifts. “He’s too broke,” they said, not unkindly at first, but their words hardened into a reason to leave. Each breakup left a hollow in his chest Xavier tried to cover with the next shift and a joke for Kamaria. Then the past circled back in a way he hadn’t expected. On the same day, each of those women appeared at his door carrying a child and a paternity test. Charlotte came with Zaiden, six years old, wide eyes and the exact same smile as Xavier; Sophia arrived with Milo, four, who chased pigeons with the same light step; Hannah brought tiny Nayela, two, who clung to her mother but reached for Xavier like a magnet. The tests — clinical, legal, cold — all said what his bones already suspected: they were his. Each child looked like a mirror turned toward his own features: his lips, the tilt of his chin, the curl of his eyelashes.

SCENE — “THE MORNING THEY ARRIVED”

Time: Between 6:00 AM and 9:00 AM

Location: The front porch and living room of the rundown Tate house, Bronx

Atmosphere: Cold morning, pale light, Xavier running on three hours of sleep

---

6:02 AM — CHARLOTTE & ZAIDEN

Xavier was half-asleep when the furious knocking started — sharp, impatient, like someone trying to break the door down. He pulled on a hoodie and stumbled through the dim hallway, stepping over a toy left from last night, and opened the door.

Cold morning air rushed in, along with Charlotte Ramirez.

She looked the same — dark hair pulled tight in a bun, eyes lined in irritation, hand on her hip. But now she had a little boy standing beside her, holding a superhero backpack almost as big as him.

Charlotte didn’t even greet him.

She shoved an envelope against Xavier’s chest.

Charlotte: “There. The paternity test. He’s yours.”

Xavier blinked hard, trying to wake up. Xavier: “Charlotte… what? It’s six in the morning—”

Charlotte: “Yeah, and I have places to be. My boyfriend isn’t taking in a kid that isn’t his. I don’t have time to argue.”

Zaiden looked up at Xavier with wide, curious eyes — eyes that looked exactly like his.

Xavier crouched down slowly, swallowing the panic bubbling in his chest.

Xavier: “Hey, little man… what’s your name?”

Zaiden (softly): “Zaiden.”

Xavier managed a small smile. Xavier: “Nice to meet you, Zaiden.”

Charlotte sighed dramatically, checking her phone.

Charlotte: “Clothes are in the bag. He’s picky about breakfast. And he cries if he doesn’t nap by noon.”

Before Xavier could process any of it, she grabbed her car keys.

Xavier: “Charlotte — wait, hold on. You’re just… leaving him?”

Charlotte: “What do you expect me to do? My man said no kids, and I can’t lose him. You’re the father — deal with it.”

Her car door slammed. Two seconds later she sped down the street, leaving exhaust and silence behind.

Xavier stood stunned on the porch, the early light touching Zaiden’s curls. He forced himself to breathe.

Xavier: “Okay, buddy… come inside.”

Zaiden nodded, clutching his backpack tightly.

---

7:12 AM — SOPHIA & MILO

Xavier had just settled Zaiden on the couch with a cartoon when the next knock came — sharp, irritated, fast.

He felt a dread settle in his stomach.

Opening the door, he saw Sophia Bryant standing there with a child on her hip. Milo stared sleepily at Xavier, head resting on Sophia’s shoulder.

Sophia didn’t bother with small talk.

Sophia: “Here. Paternity test. He’s yours.”

She tossed a folded paper at him like it was trash.

Xavier: “Sophia… not you too. What’s happening?”

Sophia rolled her eyes.

Sophia: “My fiancé said he’s done playing stepfather. He wants his own family, not someone else’s baggage.”

Xavier: “Milo is not baggage—”

Sophia: “Look, I don’t have time for this. I have a bridal fitting in thirty minutes. Just take him.”

She put Milo down. The little boy wobbled, then toddled straight toward Xavier and wrapped his arms around his leg.

Xavier froze.

Milo looked up and smiled — the same bright, dimpled smile Xavier had at his age.

Milo: “Hi.”

Something cracked in Xavier’s chest.

Xavier: “Hey, Milo…”

Sophia huffed, annoyed at the moment.

Sophia: “There’s snacks in the bag. He likes dinosaurs. He breaks everything. Good luck.”

Xavier: “Sophia, can we—”

Sophia: “Goodbye, Xavier.”

She turned and literally walked away before he could finish, heels clicking fast against the pavement.

Milo clung tighter to Xavier, then pointed inside. Milo: “Hungry.”

Xavier swallowed hard. Xavier: “Yeah… yeah, let’s get you something.”

He picked the boy up, Milo immediately resting his head on Xavier’s shoulder.

Inside, Zaiden stared at Milo. Milo stared back. Awkward silence… then Milo handed Zaiden a toy car.

Just like that, they were siblings without knowing it.

---

8:27 AM — HANNAH & NAYELA

By now, Xavier was overwhelmed — feeding two boys cereal, answering questions, breaking up fights over a toy truck. Kamaria had come down from her room, confused, holding her robe closed.

She was helping Milo with his spoon when the last knock came.

Slow, hesitant, but firm.

Xavier felt the dread again.

He opened the door — and froze.

Hannah Bianchi stood there, holding a tiny girl with soft curls and big eyes. Hannah’s cheeks were blotchy like she’d been crying, but her voice was cold.

Hannah: “This is Nayela. Your daughter.”

The paternity test stuck out of the diaper bag like an accusation.

Xavier exhaled shakily. Xavier: “Hannah… please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

Hannah avoided his eyes.

Hannah: “I got the job. Architecture firm. Milan. This is everything I worked for. I can’t take a kid with me.”

Xavier: “You’re moving to another country and leaving your daughter behind?”

Finally, Hannah’s eyes filled with tears — but her voice stayed sharp.

Hannah: “I never asked for this life. I can’t succeed dragging a toddler through airports and interviews. I’m sorry, Xavier. I can’t do it.”

Nayela reached for Xavier with tiny hands, as if she recognized him instantly. He took her carefully, feeling her small weight relax against his chest.

Hannah wiped her tears.

Hannah: “She… she likes warm milk. And lullabies. She goes to sleep if you rock her gently. Please…”

Her voice cracked — but she still stepped back.

Xavier: “Hannah, don’t—”

Hannah: “Goodbye.”

She turned and left quickly, too quickly, before she could change her mind. Her car disappeared down the street.

Nayela curled into Xavier, thumb in her mouth.

Zaiden watched from the couch. Milo held onto Kamaria’s leg. Kamaria stared at Xavier with wide, frightened eyes.

The house was completely silent, except for Nayela’s soft breathing.

Three kids. Three mothers gone. Three lives suddenly in his arms.

Xavier stood there in the doorway, shaking slightly but holding all three burdens at once — literally and emotionally.

He whispered, voice barely stable:

Xavier: “Okay… okay. I guess… we’ll figure this out.”

He closed the door softly, the weight of the choice pressing down like a second life.

Inside, the sun finally rose, lighting the cracked walls of the house that had suddenly become home for five.