Page 11 of Fierce-Baker
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad I’ve got at least one sane person in this family to talk to.”
“You think I’m sane?” he asked, positive his eyebrows were lost in his hairline.
“About as much as I am.”
“I guess it puts us ahead of the people who raised us.”
3
SHAME OF JUDGMENT
“There is my baby,” Tasha said hours later when she walked into the daycare center.
“Mama,” Micah said, his little legs pumping as fast as they could to make his way toward her.
It still amazed her she’d created this tiny human.
She refused to let the man who fathered her baby make her look at her son in anger, hurt, or even frustration.
In her mind, Shane was an anonymous sperm donor. Why not? That was what she’d told her parents, but they didn’t believe her. And they finally stopped pushing.
Could be that someone jokingly asked if that was why she was being so secretive and her silence turned into a rumor that she decided to never correct.
All but Margo knew the truth.
“How was he today?” she asked Hannah when she lifted her son in the air, tossed him a bit, then caught him bringing him to the ground as if she was trying to save a drop.
He giggled like he always did.
“Perfect,” Hannah said. “He’s just a ray of sunshine. Must take after his mother.”
“He does.” Which wasn’t a lie. Shane was always happy too. Hell, why wouldn’t he be? He was banging two women at once and both were obviously too naïve to question his split life.
“Tell Mommy what you did today, Micah.”
Tasha looked at the toothy grin her son had. Four on the top and four on the bottom. Oh, those dang sleepless nights. She knew more would be on the horizon, but for the moment, her boy was out at seven and up at six. She’d take that any day of the week.
“What did you do today?” she asked, her voice dripping with humor that made her son giggle.
“Fingers.” He held them all up, spread wide, and wiggling.
She bent and pretended to bite them. “What did your fingers do?”
“Pain.”
“Pain?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Did he hurt them?”
“Paint,” Hannah corrected. “It’s drying right now. Want to see what he did?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Did you paint me a picture, Micah?”
His head was bobbing up and down, his light brown hair was thin and almost floating with the movement.
They moved toward the wall where the pictures were all laid out on tables. “He did this one.”
She looked at the smears of red and blue, making it almost black and purple. It was dark and gloomy and nothing like her child’s personality.
