TANGLED WITH MR BLACKWOOD

Saturday | Queens, New York – 4:18 PM

The train ride to Queens was slow — half-lulled by weekend rhythms, half-interrupted by city noise — but Lexi didn't mind.

She pressed her forehead lightly to the window, watching the blur of graffiti walls and rooftops give way to the quieter sprawl of outer-borough blocks. The clatter of the tracks had become oddly soothing, like a rhythm she hadn't realized she missed.

Outside, buildings softened into rows of small businesses, corner stores, kids skipping between stoops. Laundry flapped from second-floor windows. A dog barked in the distance. The air looked different here — less weight, less rush. Familiar.

She hadn't been home in weeks.

Not because she didn't want to. But because she'd been climbing — one pitch deck, one client report, one tight breath at a time. Holding herself together, proving herself at every turn. Trying not to fall apart under the weight of it all.

But now… she had room to exhale.

And this weekend? It was just for them.

No calls. No clients. Just warmth. Just quiet. Just home.

Her mom opened the door with a dish towel over one shoulder and flour dust on her cheek.

"Well, well. Look who remembers she has a mother."

Lexi laughed, stepping into the scent of lemon floor cleaner and simmering onions. "I didn't forget. I just needed to not crash through your door in burnout mode."

"Mhm. And now you come back glowing. I'm suspicious."

"I brought groceries," Lexi said, holding up two full bags. "The fancy kind."

Her mom peeked inside and gave a dramatic gasp. "Grated parmesan? Wild-caught salmon? Girl, who even are you?"

Lexi grinned. "Employed."

Her mom squinted at her like she was trying to read between the lines. "Mmhm. And looking like someone who's seen the promised land."

They cooked side-by-side like they always did.

Mac and cheese in the oven. Salmon grilled with lemon and garlic butter. A fresh kale salad with roasted pine nuts Lexi had splurged on because… why not?

The kitchen filled with the comforting sounds of chopping, sizzling, soft laughter.

Music played softly in the background — old-school R&B, the kind her mom liked to hum along to when her hands were busy and her heart was light.

Lexi mouthed the lyrics as she stirred the garlic butter, letting the scent wrap around her like a memory.

"Smells like we're having a wedding dinner," her mom teased, tossing another handful of cheese into the casserole.

Lexi snorted. "I just got a paycheck. Let me celebrate like a queen, okay?"

"Mmhmm." Her mother shot her a look. "So… is it the job? Or… someone?"

Lexi blinked. "Huh?"

"You're glowing, baby. I've known your face since before you had eyebrows. Something's shifted."

Lexi turned back to the stove, stirring a sauce that suddenly didn't need stirring.

"It's just… the job. I feel like I'm finally doing something that matters."

A beat passed. The kind of silence that says more than a dozen follow-up questions.

"Alright," her mom said softly. "But if it is someone… I hope he sees you. All of you."

Lexi didn't answer.

She just set the spoon down and moved to set the table.

In the kitchen, they moved in rhythm — years of muscle memory guiding their hands. Lexi passed a dish towel. Her mom tested the salmon.

"You didn't marinate this long enough," her mom said, with a smirk.

"It's fine," Lexi replied. "It's not a blind date. It doesn't need charm. It just needs lemon."

"You're lucky you're cute."

"Thanks. I get it from you."

Her mom gave her a look but didn't hide the smile.

Later, as Lexi poured dressing over the salad, her mom peeked into the oven. "Mmm. The mac is bubbling at the edges. That's when you know it's about to slap."

Lexi raised an eyebrow. "Did you just say 'slap'? Who taught you that?"

"I'm still cool," her mom said with mock offense. "You think just 'cause I don't have Instagram I don't know things?"

"I think you read slang off the church bulletin board and pretend it's pop culture."

"Bold talk from a girl who once confused baking powder with cornstarch."

"That was one time!"

They both burst into laughter, the kind that made your ribs ache in the best way.

The kind of laugh that echoed off the kitchen tiles and reached somewhere deep — the heart, maybe. Or the part of the soul that remembered joy.

Dinner was everything.

Comfort and flavor and joy layered between bites. Lexi went in for seconds. Her mom for thirds. They wiped their plates clean and stayed seated long after, talking about nothing and everything.

Eventually, Lexi sank into the couch, legs tucked under her, while her mom wiped the counter. The house buzzed with the soft hum of the fridge, the muted noise from a neighbor's TV, the scent of garlic still hanging in the air.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that made you feel safe, even in silence.

"You've always carried too much, Lex," her mother said gently. "Even as a little girl. Always trying to fix things. Always trying to make me smile."

Lexi looked down at her hands — polished, steady now. "You deserved to smile. You still do."

Her mom turned, leaned against the counter, arms folded.

"And you? What do you deserve?"

Lexi's throat tightened.

She didn't answer right away.

Then — eyes shimmering, voice barely above a whisper:

"I'm trying to give you the life you deserve, Mama. One where you don't have to worry anymore. One where you rest. One where you never feel like you failed just because we didn't have much."

Her mother crossed the room in two steps and gathered her into the kind of hug that rewired everything.

"I never felt like I failed," she whispered. "You were always my win."

Later, after dishes and stories and a shared slice of peach pie, Lexi sat by the window, watching the streetlights blink one by one.

Queens had its own kind of rhythm.

Quieter. Softer. Safer.

The city had taught her how to fight — but this place? This was where she learned how to feel.

How to soften without losing herself.

She pulled out her journal and scribbled:

Mac & cheese = healing

My mom = everything

"You were always my win." 

I want to make her proud. I will.

And then, with a soft breath:

I think I'm changing.