I’m walking into Target by myself, calm and low-key, like it’s any normal errand—even though it’s literally 12:00 at night and the whole place feels slow, quiet, almost echoing, fluorescent lights humming, barely any people, carts rolling somewhere in the distance. And in my arms is my newborn daughter, Nyelani Vae Becca—two days old, like fresh fresh—sitting in this expensive Nuna car seat, wrapped up soft and warm, tiny like she was just placed on earth yesterday. And she’s… unreal. Like actually unreal. Thick, soft blonde hair is already full and fluffy, not even the usual newborn fuzz—real hair. Her white skin like a white person, glowing under the store lights, delicate features that look almost too perfect, long lashes resting on her cheeks, the smallest nose, lips slightly parted while she sleeps. And she’s tiny—like you feel like you need to handle her extra gently just looking at her. She looks like she was made out of something soft and angelic, like she doesn’t even belong in a Target at midnight, the kind of baby that makes people instinctively want to come closer, peek in, maybe reach out and touch her little hand—if they weren’t too busy being weird. Because instead of normal reactions, people are staring. Hard. Not quick glances—like full-on watching me, following me with their eyes, and I can already feel it and I already know why. I’m dark-skinned, and she doesn’t look like me at all at first glance, so instead of minding their business, they’re building whole stories in their heads. Then there’s the Carsons. They pull up outside in this jet-black 2026 Rolls-Royce, polished and glossy like it just rolled out of a showroom, shining under the parking lot lights, doors opening smooth as they step out mid-conversation, confident, put-together, like they’re walking into something important—Jane, Alexander, their kids, all of them. And the second they come in, the energy shifts even more, because now it’s not just quiet judgment—it’s loud, obvious, uncomfortable, whispering that’s not even subtle anymore, staring that turns into straight-up watching, and somehow they’ve got other people in the store doing the same thing, like everybody just collectively decided to be weird and openly racist at the same time. Meanwhile, I’m already inside, unbothered on the surface, moving through the aisles like it’s a regular night, same space, completely different energy—me? calm, quiet, focused on my daughter. Them? acting like I don’t belong there, like I’m doing something wrong just existing with my own child. All while Nyelani is just sleeping peacefully, completely unaware—tiny, perfect, and beautiful enough to stop people in their tracks… if they weren’t so busy being ignorant not knowing my husband is literally Mark Zuckerberg.