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I only hope so because the love of my life is here in my arms, and I can’t lose my baby. I can’t.
10
Christine
We’ve been huddled in the hospital room for a while now, fearing the worst, when the dreaded knock comes. I turn wild eyes to Damon.
“What’s going to happen now?” I ask, my throat dry. “What do we do?”
My boyfriend has a grim look on his face.
“We attack this situation head on, Christine. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
Then he opens the door, and my worst dreams materialize. A large man, clearly a security guard judging from the baton at his waist, is the first to enter.
“Everything alright here?” he asks, surveying the room.
Then the nurse from earlier enters too, as well as a young woman dressed in an ill-fitting suit. She’s got a clipboard and a name tag that reads “Children’s Services” and I gasp, clutching Paddy close to my chest.
“He’s mine,” I whisper, my eyes wide. “Please don’t take my son from me.”
The woman nods and introduces herself.
“I’m Hannah Jones from Children’s Services,” she says in a professional tone. “You are?”
“Christine Caldwell,” I whisper, literally clutching Paddy to me now. “I’m Patrick’s mother.” My vision blurs as tears fill my eyes and I start shaking my head frantically.
“No. No. Please. You can’t take my baby.”
Damon tightens his arm around me.
“They aren’t taking anyone,” he says in a firm tone. His eyes are unwavering as he stares a hole through Hannah, like he’s daring her to disagree with him, but the social worker’s unmoved. She merely nods and begins.
“I understand there have been some serious allegations made against you, ma’am, and it’s my job to investigate. Your ex, Mr. Knocks, has brought information to our attention, but I’m sure a few question will clear everything up.” She pauses and clears her throat again. “At Children’s Services, we’re looking out for the best interests of your baby.”
“Just ask your questions,” Damon snarls. “Then you can get out.”
Hannah stares at him.
“And you are?”
“Damon Stanton, Ms. Caldwell’s boyfriend,” he says in a cold tone. “I’m also a major donor to First Presbyterian.”
But Ms. Jones isn’t intimidated by my boyfriend’s declaration and merely turns in my direction.
“So long as you have Ms. Caldwell’s permission to stay, then I’m fine with your presence,” she says, looking at me.
I nod.
“He does,” I say in a faint voice.
The social worker nods and lifts her clipboard.
“Well, let’s get started then. Again, I’m sure a few questions will suffice for now, seeing that you just delivered a child. First things first, Ms. Caldwell: are you a prostitute?”
I open my mouth to answer her, but the words stall on my tongue. How do I answer a question like that? After all, I was an escort for one night, even if it feels like the distant past. Or maybe escorting and prostitution are different? After all, in escorting we aren’t technically being paid for sex. My mind whirls as my mouth opens and closes silently. Oh god, what do I say?
But Damon swoops to the rescue.
