It rained so hard that I was two hours late picking her up. I found her sitting alone on the school steps, in a puddle of her own making.
“Is he the one with the infection?” “No, parasites. My son is the one with the pus.” We’d been stuck in the elevator for eighteen hours.
He caught me again. Are you crazy? Jamaican moms do it. My baby’s not Jamaican. Who says it’s yours? He hogged the rest of the bowl.
Tears pooled in her eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest as she spoke the words aloud, “We found your father.”
“Check for monsters,” she used to say. “In the cupboard. Under the bed.” It never occurred to her that the monster was the person checking.
Ted and Vikki made up their minds—they didn’t want to be parents. Too bad it was six years too late for birth control.