Page 57 of Peaches & Pistols

“How about you? Do you want more kids?” I’m taken aback by his question, when I should’ve seen it coming from a mile away. Maybe if I wasn’t studying the color variations in his facial hair, or the vein that runs up his temple, I would’ve anticipated it.

“It funny…well, not funny ha ha, but funny what the heck that we both have daughters we love more than our own lives but had no say in their conception. I used to think maybe if I was married to the right person”—my eyes flit to his reflexively and drop just as quickly—“I’d like to have more children. Being a mom is the best thing I’ve ever experienced.”

He waits for me to continue, and when I don’t, prompts, “But…”

A kindred truth-serum flows between us and fighting it is futile.

“But, I had severe post-partum depression and anxiety after Everly was born. It invaded my brain the moment she left my body. Even though I was scared, I was so excited to be a mom.

“Carter wasn’t at her birth, work was more important. I never even told my parents I was pregnant because I didn’t know where in the country they were. The operating room nurse laid Everly on my chest and I just…cried.

“I didn’t stop crying for weeks. Eventually, the tears dried up, but the crying stayed in my soul. I did everything. Carter had no interest in being a father. Why did he get me pregnant if he didn’t want to be a dad?

“I don’t remember much from the first two years of her life. It was all I could do to keep her fed, bathed, and stimulated. Days would go by when my own nutrition and hygiene were less than a fleeting thought.

“Carter was appalled by my ‘ridiculous behavior.’ He was mean before she was born, but he became cruel after we had her. He’d threaten to take Everly away from me, have me sent to a mental health facility, get her a new mother.

“When your mind is just cracks filled with agony, reality shifts drastically. It got so bad I couldn’t…I didn’t want to…be here anymore.”

I’ve never told anyone about my darkest thoughts. I terrified myself but was too lost in hell to ask for help.

“The storm cleared slowly until it was a perpetual fog, but I wasn’t a danger to myself anymore. Even if I was desperate for more kids, I don’t think I’d survive post-partum again.”

Greyson gently tips my chin up with his knuckles. “Hey. Look at me.”

I can’t help but to do as he says. I’m hardwired to do anything to please him.

“I’m so fucking glad you’re still here.” His hand squeezes mine tightly. “Your story is far from over.”

20

“Don’t like, fire me”—Mia chuckles—“but I’m ready for winter break to be over.”

We’re sitting at the dining table, hot mugs of coffee warming our hands on this sub-zero day. The girls are in the living room, lost in their own world.

They’ve made an impressive fort by removing the cushions and pillows from the sectional, moving the coffee table, and draping blankets over the top.

I flipped up the front blanket half an hour ago and turned on a movie for them. A bowl of popcorn, juice boxes, and animation should keep them occupied for a while.

It’s not that they were being a bother, on the contrary. But I wanted to secure some quiet time to talk to Mia without child-interruptions.

“I’m never firing you, you’re stuck here forever,” I deadpan, her eyes glimmering back with mischief. “But I agree, winter break is fun for the first few days, but after Christmas, it feels like forever before they go back to school.”

I’m a working parent. I love my daughter unconditionally, but I need time at the hardware store to stay sane.

I don’t know how Mia was essentially a single stay-at-home parent for the last six years. She’s a saint as far as I’m concerned for taking Harper under her angel wings and treating her with the same care as she does her own daughter.

“Thank god, because I’ve been feeling like the worst mom on the planet for wanting to fast forward to next week when I can drop the girls off at school.”

How can this woman feel like she’s a bad mom when she treats Harper with as much love and tenderness as Everly? She never speaks of our kids as “my daughter” or “your daughter.” She treats our girls the same and it heals me in a way I didn’t know was broken.

I’m drawn to the way her pink lips caress the rim of the mug. A drop of coffee escapes down the ceramic, and she licks it up with her tongue. Why did I have to be born a man, and not that fucking mug?

I take a drink from my own coffee to prevent me from saying something stupid, because that’s what I am around her. Stupid.

“What’ll you do after you drop them off?”

“Good question.” She taps her chin with one delicate fingertip, looking up to the ceiling, weighing her options.