After Birth
“We always knew. We used to microwave your formula.I sighed, closed my eyes, hoped she might not be there when I opened them again.What? We didn’t know. It fills them up better! He’ll sleep longer. Oh my God, you know what else we used to do? Benadryl. What a gift that was. Knocked you out for hours.She giggled and glanced around at the chaotic mess: was the basket full of clean laundry, or was it dirty? The bowl in which I’d eaten that morning’s oatmeal, getting crusty. Dirty dishes stacked in ...the sink. She raised her brows.Kill you to tidy up a little?Don’t start with me, Demerol bitch.What? You might feel better if it wasn’t such a pigsty around here.I stared out the big window, arms tense around Walker. Didn’t want to be that way around him, no flash of anger.Sorry, monkey, I whispered. It’s okay. How much of the rest of my life would I spend thusly assuring this poor moppet that “it” was “okay”?Incidentally, you have no right to speak to me that way.That’s how she was: hard and mean until you responded in kind, then wounded, self-righteous.Soon he was finished on the left side, big boy.MoreLess
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