It’s 7:00 in the morning in a quiet Atlanta coffee shop, the kind where the espresso machine hums like a soft engine waking up the day and sunlight slides through the windows in thin golden strips. I’m already there with my two-year-old son Adonis Graham, who is fast asleep in his stroller, bundled up and peaceful, one tiny hand curled against his blanket while the wheels rest beside my table. I’m ordering food at the counter in a calm, unhurried way, speaking softly as I decide between a pastry and something warm for breakfast, clearly used to mornings that revolve around my son’s rhythm rather than my own. The shop feels ordinary, safe, almost invisible to the world outside, until the door opens and Tasha walks in with a few of her friends, who are huge fans of Drake.