Page 11 of Hush, Little Baby

I color another line, then another, and the man watches every motion. I can feel the intensity of his gaze, but it isn’t hungry in the way some men are. It’s worse, actually. It’s like he’s memorizing, burning each movement into his brain. I try to move slower, to not make mistakes, but the focus only makes my hands clumsier.

“Are you coloring a mommy cat?” His words are gentle, oddly light for someone this big.

I nod again and add, “And her babies,” because I need him to know.

He leans in, gaze tracing my page.

“I see that,” he says. His tone is pleased, approving.

My cheeks flare. I press the crayon to the paper too hard again, and have to ease off as my wrist complains.

He’s looking at my hand now, concern sharpening his features. “Does it hurt a lot?” he asks softly.

I shake my head. “Just a little.”

He hums, thoughtful. “May I see?”

Nobody ever asks to look at my hand. They always scold me or ignore me. But I stretch it out, tentatively, and he takes it with the gentlest touch imaginable, like he’s holding a fragile glass sculpture. His warm fingers circle my wrist, probing without pressure, patient and calm.

“How long has it been hurting?” he asks, voice steady. I shrug, too shy to say. He nods, as if that makes perfect sense. “That must make coloring hard.”

I nod fiercely.

“But I wanna finish,” I whisper, because the kittens need their colors.

He glances down at the page again.

“They’re very lucky,” he says quietly, “to have someone working so hard to make them right.”

My face burns. I hide it by sliding the orange crayon along the mama cat’s tail.

“They’re already right,” I mumble. “They’re mama’s.”

He considers this, then exhales softly. “Yes, I think you’re right.”

I keep expecting him to get up, end the conversation, grow bored, but he doesn’t move. He just continues sitting there like he’s meant to be here.

“Charlie,” he says.

My crayon stops mid-stroke, my stomach twisting. Did he just say my name? I didn’t tell him. I swallow and look up.

“How do you know my name?” I whisper.

His brows knit together, surprise flickering in his dark eyes.

“That’s a good question, sweetheart,” he says, not actually answering the question.

I look back down at my coloring page and try to finish the mama cat’s tail, but the line keeps wobbling now, and I don’t like that.

“Who are you?” I ask after a second, because that feels important.

He answers me this time. “I’m your new Daddy.”

Everything in me goes still, and my eyes start burning again.

He’s making fun of me.

He has to be.