Her expression would have made me laugh if I wasn’t so stressed. “For Henry, yes. Unfortunately, he has no shame.”
My mom guilt pricked hard at me—I couldn’t even pick him up without risking things getting much worse.
“Why do you look so shocked?” Sarah asked her sister. “You trade in manure.”
Kit ran a landscaping business. “Yeah,” she said. “But I don’t actively hang out with cows as they make the product.” Kit looked over at me, her brows—bright red like her wild curls—bunched together. “Sorry, Ellie. Not that your son’s a cow.”
“It’s fine,” I reassured her, throwing my stuff in the bottom of the stroller. “The way he eats and shits I swear he’s partsteer.”
Kit laughed, but her smile fell. “You’re leaving?”
More guilt squeezed my insides. Kit and I had met through her sister years ago. We’d always been friendly, and I’d actually seen more of her than her sister in recent years since we both lived on the west coast for a while. I was so happy to learn she’d also recently moved to Quince Valley too. Sarah’s job took her out of town so much, and she and Jamie spent all their downtime working on their place out in the country. Kit had a boyfriend, but they’d been together so long they weren’t joined at the hip like Sarah and Jamie.
“Sorry,” I said, checking to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. “I don’t want to subject the nice restaurant bathrooms to this.” I knew from experience this kind of blowout was better handled with a full-baby hose-down.
Winona refused to let me pay, and I didn’t have time to argue too hard. I wouldn’t win, anyway, Sarah had warned me ahead of time. Winona’s husband was a literal billionaire, the sole investor in our trade school. It still felt weird not to pay, but I’d figure that out later.
After quickly saying my goodbyes, Kit helped me navigate the crowded patio out to the sidewalk.
“Do you want to meet up next week?” she asked.
“Maybe, but I’m starting a big job on Monday.” I was an electrician, and it was my first solo job since moving to Quince Valley three weeks ago. I had a huge client roster back in California, but being new in town, I’d only subbed for people so far. I needed this job. I wanted to take on as much as possible until September when I’d transition to teaching.
But when Kit tried to mask her disappointed expression, I suggested we meet up at the farmer’s market this weekend. “Invite the rest of them when you get back to the table?”
She nodded.
I gave her a squeeze, then wheeled Henry around and began striding fast down the sidewalk, making a song out ofmy promises to my whimpering little guy that I was going to get him out of his filthy diaper as soon as I could. I checked the time—it was going to be tight with picking up Tommy at the alternative high school over in Greenville.
When Henry finally broke into a tearful cry, I started to run. “I’m sorry, baby.”
It was only a few blocks to my townhouse, but all of it was on the busy riverfront walkway, which was lined with patios and shops. Tourists, too, even though it was only early May. I dodged and weaved through the lunchtime crowds. I was good. I was fine. This was a very small-scale problem in the grand scheme of things.
I passed a cop car parked on the street, and despite my focus on getting Henry home, I was hit with a memory: red and blue lights flashing outside my door in Sacramento. Panic in my throat as I realized my teenaged son wasn’t in his bed.
Yeah. A shitty diaper was nothing compared to that.
Still, as I reached the last block and Henry began wailing, I felt extremely close to the edge of losing it.
I was so,sotired. Seven months in, and I still hadn’t gotten over the bone-deep level of tiredness that came with caring for a baby on my own. I should have remembered it from the last time. But it had been fifteen years since Tommy was a baby, and I’d had a lot more energy at 20 than 35. I was a kid myself back then. Or maybe I’d just blocked everything out.
Henry was screaming now, obviously deeply uncomfortable. That corkscrew of guilt twisted harder. People were staring, jumping out of our way.
I’d also forgotten what a chorus ofshouldsparenting was. Ishouldhave tried to jam our way into that tiny cramped bathroom at the restaurant. Ishouldhave avoided experimenting with feeding Henry fruit this morning.
I should have slept by myself in that hotel room sixteen months ago.
I wasn’t alone in that room. But I sure as shit was now. Anger, bright and hot, flared through me, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I never used to be a crier. I prided myself on that. But a lack of sleep and hormones constantly gushing through your system will do that to you, I guess.
I briefly closed my eyes, willing them away. Still half jogging down the street.
And that’s when I slammed into something hard, shocking poor Henry into a gasp of silence and dousing me in ever-more Mom guilt as we nearly toppled over.
“Fuckme!” came a man’s voice.
Henry, meanwhile, went quiet.
I sprinted around to the front of the stroller, an icy hand gripping my heart. But when I dropped down to look at my son, I let out a breath. Henry was shocked, but not mortally wounded.
