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“It has not,” she rushes to defend her employer. “Not in the twenty years Making Dreams Happen has been in business.”
I’m not sure if knowing that makes it better or worse.
–––
Two hours later, I’m leaving my place to meet my baby daddy for coffee. Don’t judge me. I’m not treating this as if it’s a minor hiccup, but it’s either laugh or cry and I did more than enough of the second for a full sixty minutes after hanging up the phone.
I have a brief description of him courtesy of Rebecca. I’m already nervous, but her informing me he’d be wearing a blue shirt and would have a yellow rose on the table amped it up because he’s obviously smart.
I’m not stupid, I excelled in all my classes, straight As throughout high school, but that’s as far as I went. I wanted to attend college, and even applied to do so, except I couldn’t afford it at the time. And, when I received the money from my grandfather, my emotions, and anger, were too all over the place to concentrate on my courses and that wouldn’t have been fair to anybody.
When I’d gotten everything back in check, my dreams had begun to change. A college degree no longer held the same appeal. Being called mommy had taken precedence.
Perhaps it’s wrong to put all that pressure on a baby. To have one because I have so much love to give and nobody to give it to. But, and I did a lot of soul searching prior to taking the irreversible step of being implanted, I know in my heart, I’m doing this for the right reasons.
Now if only I can make Mr. Doyle see that.
**Walker**
Every single time the bell above the door of My Cuppa dings, I have to force myself not to look and see if it’s her.
The woman carrying my baby.
That thought still has the power to knock me on my ass. The effect of it hasn’t waned once in the twelve hours since I first discovered the snafu. Or a blessing in disguise, as I prefer to view it.
I’m fully intent on making this as easy on the mom-to-be as possible. I don’t want to stress her out. I’m going to assure her that I have no plans on taking the baby from her. I do, however, want to be a part of their life. I’ll financially support them. My son or daughter can be added to my insurance. I opened a savings account for them this morning with a nice balance.
Paperwork is being drawn up as we speak to make them my sole beneficiary. I’ll just need to add their name after they’re born.
Oh my gosh. Lamaze classes. I’ll need to learn how to change a diaper. Braid hair if it’s a girl. Fuck no. She can’t date until she’s thirty.
“Are you okay?” A sweet tone gently asks, the hand on my shoulder comforting instead of upsetting me as I usually experience when someone other than my family touches me.
“Just having a bit of a panic attack,” I admit. Why am I telling a stranger this?
“Breathe,” she urges. “In for five, out for seven.” Then she proceeds to do both counts with me, not in the least upset when I have to repeat it twice before it takes hold. Or, more accurately, lets go.
Which is when my brain clicks back online and I ask, “Why five and seven?”
As I’m still staring at the table, trying to quiet the last of the anxiety churning through me, I don’t see her shrug, yet I somehow know she did. “Most tend to think in even numbers. I’ve discovered using odd makes you pause, forcing you to concentrate more thoroughly, taking your mind further off whatever triggered the attack."
"I just discovered I’m going to be a—” my voice trails off as I glance at my rescuer. My gaze immediately drops to her belly and I know, I feel it deep down, that’s my child in there.
And the woman providing a safe home for her?
She’s mine, too.
Now I just have to get her to see it, too.
**Zoe**
I didn’t register the blue shirt, nor the flower on the table, when I entered. All I saw was someone in the midst of a crisis and, having so recently suffered my own meltdown, I didn’t hesitate to try and help.
As far as first impressions go, I’ve had worse.
However, now that he’s calm, my eyes notice what it didn’t before.
He’s here for me. Sort of.
