The following is an excerpt from “Mama: A Queer Black Woman’s Story of a Family Lost and Found” by Nikkya Hargrove

We both missed Jonathan, of course, but while he was in Virginia, Dinushka and I went on real dates. We drank a glass of wine with dinner, sometimes two. We stayed up late in bed, talking about our future together, sharing our career hopes and where we dreamed of living one day. This was what being a couple was supposed to be like at the very beginning—and we hadn’t had much chance to experience being alone, just the two of us.

Dinushka was figuring out if she wanted to return to the classroom that following year, and she also had to decide when she would come out to her parents. Dinushka was an honest person, both with herself and with others. Unlike with Kate and me, it wasn’t an issue of if Dinushka would come out; it was a matter of when. We both knew that it was an important and necessary step, especially if we were to be a family of three. Dinushka was growing more comfortable with her sexual identity, and in that regard, she was nothing like Kate, but I couldn’t help but worry that keeping secrets from one’s family was not healthy.

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“What if my parents don’t accept me and you, or Jonathan?” she said.

“Your parents will come around. Give them time. Once you come out, they will show you that they love you. You are their only daughter. Trust me.”

All the stories she’d shared with me about her family made me feel optimistic. I hadn’t met them yet, and only had her stories to go on, but I could sense the love they had for her.

I had my list of fears, too. What if I didn’t find a job? What if we couldn’t find a bigger apartment for the three of us?

Despite our concerns, life with Dinushka felt like magic. We were present for each other. We supported each other. I had someone who chose to love me for who I was, baby included. She had someone who saw her and who supported her dreams, even though I didn’t necessarily understand how much she truly loved God. Both of us had been searching for this kind of love but didn’t think we’d ever find it. Yet here we were.

Still, we were a gay couple planning our future with a little boy, and our worries about our legal rights to Jonathan never completely left us. On paper, I had only residential custody of Jonathan; Dinushka had no rights at all. We were raising Jonathan on the hope that Karl would not fight us—mostly because he’d never cared enough to ask for more.

Dinushka and I spent our first Valentine’s Day together like we did on the very first night we met. I planned to pick up dinner from the same pizza place—John & Joe’s—and I thought I’d timed it perfectly. I’d run to get the food, have Dinushka’s favorite wine open in the living room, and have Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer for dessert. A simple, low-key celebration to mark five months together.

I realized while setting the table that I’d forgotten the ice cream. I dropped everything, ran out of the apartment, and raced to the store. I was out of breath by the time I got back. When I opened the door, Dinushka stood in front of me, tears streaming down her cheeks, her knitted brown cap slanted on the top of her head and about to fall to the ground.

“I thought you left me,” she said, gripping the Valentine’s Day card I’d written her. “You weren’t here. I thought you wrote me this card as a goodbye and you were breaking up with me.”

As I held her in my arms, I could feel her heart racing, her wet face against my cheek. I tried to make her feel safe, allowing the weight of my body to give her some comfort and reassurance, to let her know I was there.

“I would never break up with you in that way. But really, I’d never break up with you at all,” I said, gently wiping the tears from her face. “I just ran out to get my two favorite men, Ben and Jerry. How can we celebrate without ice cream?” 

She didn’t laugh. I would discover, over time, much more about Dinushka’s childhood and why she felt that I might reject her or hurt her in some way. Growing up, Dinushka was lonely; she experienced bullying and abuse that made her distrust others. It was her faith that enabled her to keep her fears at bay, or at least to not let them consume her. Hearing her, and the stories she shared with me about what she’d endured, touched me deeply. Her ability to be vulnerable with me allowed me to feel more and more comfortable being vulnerable with her. Sometimes we both let the tears fall, trusting that we’d have the other to wipe them away.

Dinushka and I had work to do in those months apart from Jonathan. We couldn’t let the scars from our childhood or the newness of our relationship get in the way. We couldn’t waste one day mulling over small issues, like who didn’t put the toothpaste cap back on, or wallowing in the hurt of one of us checking out someone else. Our mission was to bring Jonathan back from my grandparents as quickly as possible.

Luckily, I’d found a new job, in Midtown Manhattan. I’d be an administrative assistant to the vice president of the nonprofit Junior Achievement, helping K–12 kids learn something I’d never learned myself: how to handle money. I’d have to travel from the Bronx into Manhattan by myself, which was daunting, but I was making progress toward reuniting with Jonathan.

When I’d call Jonathan, before putting him on the phone to hear my voice, my grandmother would say, “You know, you can let him stay here. We can get him started in school.” Her words would trail off as she waited for my response. It was like she refused to listen to me, like I had not made it clear that Jonathan’s stay there was to be only for a short time. Her lack of acknowledgment cut me, reminding me of the feeling I had when she’d swatted me with a switch as a child.

“No, I’ll get him soon. This is temporary,” I repeated each time. “But thank you both for being here for me, for us.” I didn’t remind her that when Jonathan was born, she was sure she was too old to raise another child.

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