Chapter Three: "The Cost of Trying"
School was a blur of missed buses, spilled milk, aching shoulders, and unread textbooks.
Andra had returned to campus with a new fire in her chest—one lit by necessity more than ambition. She hadn't just gone back for herself anymore. She went back because Kingsley needed more than lullabies and whispered promises. He needed a future.
Her parents had done what they could, scraping together the little they had to help cover her registration fees. One of her sisters helped her get secondhand textbooks. A friend offered her old laptop, cracked on one corner but still functional. Everyone was pulling for her—and she felt the weight of every borrowed hope on her back.
The only way to make it all work was to hire help.
Her mom had suggested it one evening while peeling potatoes. "You'll burn out trying to be in two places at once. Find someone to watch Kingsley while you're in class. We'll help until you start earning."
So she did.
The girl's name was Mariam. Seventeen. Quiet. A neighbor's niece who had just finished high school and was looking for something small before joining a tailoring course. She was sweet with Kingsley, patient, and punctual. Andra promised to pay her KSh 4,000 by the end of the month. It wasn't much, but it felt like everything.
The days began to follow a rhythm.
She'd wake up at dawn, strap Kingsley to her back as she prepared his bath, feed him mashed bananas or porridge, then hand him to Mariam with a list of instructions and a hopeful smile.
Then came school—long lectures, group assignments, presentations that made her stomach churn, and classmates who didn't understand why she always looked like she hadn't slept in weeks.
But Andra kept going.
Every evening she came home to Kingsley, tired but eager to hold him. She'd sit with him on the floor and let him bang on empty tins with a spoon while she rewrote notes by hand. Mariam never complained. In fact, the girl had grown fond of Kingsley, often staying a little later to help settle him before she left.
For a while, things seemed okay.
Then came the end of the month.
Mariam didn't say anything, but one afternoon her auntie stopped Andra's mom outside and asked, "When is the girl getting paid? She's been patient."
Andra felt her stomach drop.
She hadn't asked Parker yet. She had assumed—wrongly—that maybe he would offer something by now. After all, he knew the cost of raising a child. And hadn't he said he'd be there?
So that night, she texted him.
"Hey. Can you send me something for Kingsley's nanny? I promised her payment end of month. It's 4k."
He replied two hours later.
"Tomorrow, I promise. Had a gig today, just waiting on payment."
Tomorrow came. No money.
She texted again. No reply.
Two days later, her mom sat her down.
"I took a small loan from a friend," she said gently. "To pay Mariam. You can't lose her. Kingsley's doing well, and so are you."
Andra stared at her plate, ashamed.
"I'll talk to Parker again," she said, heat rising in her chest.
On the fourth day, Parker finally responded.
"Sorry for the delay. Sent something just now. Hope it helps."
Andra opened her mobile app. KSh 800.
Eight hundred shillings.
She stared at it in disbelief, then at Kingsley's tiny socks lined up on the table.
She called him. He didn't answer.
She tried again. Straight to voicemail.
Later that evening, he finally called back.
"I know it's not everything," he said. "But I'm really trying here. Things have been tight."
"Parker," she said calmly, "You promised me four thousand. You sent eight hundred."
"I know. I just thought... it's something, right?"
"It's something," she repeated, voice flat. "But it's not enough. Not anymore."
There was silence.
"I thought you understood that I'm doing my best," he muttered.
"And I thought you meant it when you said you'd be there."
He sighed. "Why does it always come back to what I don't do?"
"Because what you don't do keeps becoming my emergency."
They didn't speak again that night.
Later, Andra sat beside Kingsley's crib, watching him sleep peacefully. The soft hush of his breath reminded her why she kept choosing the harder path.
She was tired. But she was done waiting for rescue.
The next morning, she texted her friend Eva who worked part-time as a photographer's assistant.
"Hey. If you know any side gigs—tutoring, typing, anything—let me know. I need extra cash."
This wasn't the life she wanted. But it was the life she was building.
And brick by brick, she'd build it with her own hands.