Plus there’s the fact that I can barely take care of myself.
“This is your brother we are talking about!”
I grind my teeth. “I know, but he knew the risks when he snuck into Anglefell. He wasn’t supposed to be there. I love James to death, but I’m not exactly in a position to help him.”
Emma grins toothlessly as a gush of brown bursts from her lips. It sprays all over her tray. “Oh, Emma. Please eat.”
My mother is like an angry cat, hissing in my ear. “This. Is. Outrageous. You need to talk to him, Isobelle.”
“I tried. I supposed I can try again, but you’ll have to be patient.”
“You will, or I’ll call him myself and tell him about Emma.”
Emma wrenches the spoon out of my limp grip and promptly sticks it in her mouth. I wrestle it out of her tiny hands. “That’s not for you to tell him. Look, I have to feed Emma. I’ll talk to you later.”
Mom dissolves into tears. My heart wrenches with every shaking breath that crackles through the speaker.
“For God’s sake, Isobelle. Make him understand we need his help.”
I could never make him do anything. “Fine. I’ll do my best.” In between taking care of my one year old and working at the frozen yogurt store. “I gotta go.”
I end the call and toss the phone on my kitchen table, turning my full attention to Emma.
I don’t do shame.
It’s a useless emotion that gets in the way of happiness. It refuses to let us forgive ourselves. Move on. It’s hard enough to deal with your own shame. Choosing to be a single mom? I might as well be sitting under a dump truck for all the judgment people threw my way.
Sometimes it’s hard to embrace the right thing, because it’s really fucking hard. I didn’t have to be a single mom. I chose it because I knew it was the best thing for my baby, and I make no apologies.
But for the first time I feel it in my heart. The little dagger of shame.
He should know. The time for secrecy is past. He deserves to know.
And he will. I’ll send him an email with the subject line promising a lesbian orgy.
Emma grabs the plastic cup of applesauce and spills it over her tray, and then she splays her grubby little hands, splashing them in her breakfast. She shrieks with joy, her round face widened by a huge smile. Her front teeth pushed through a few weeks ago. It’s freaking adorable.
“Mama!”
“You’re having so much fun, aren’t you Em?”
She sticks her fingers in her mouth. Sighing, I grab a clean washcloth and run it under the sink, wiping the gobs of breakfast from her tray. She bounces in her seat as I clean her face and hands.
“Maa!”
Two short arms reach out for me, hands opening and closing. Emma makes a whine.
“You want to be picked up?”
Ding-dong.
The doorbell chimes as I loop an arm around Emma’s waist and lift her out of her high chair. Maybe it’s the neighbor coming to bitch about the baby again. It’s not that I’m not sympathetic, but there’s only so much I can do when the walls are paper-thin. She’s a baby. They cry.
Steeling myself, I march toward the door with Emma bouncing in my arm. A tall, dark shadow looms in front of the warped glass. I fling the door open, prepared to apologize to Ms. Fitzgibbins, but instead there’s a man.
And he’s Tom.
“Hi!” Emma’s high voice attracts his attention.
His scowling eyes widen like saucers as he takes in the baby at my hip. He points at her, lips moving soundlessly until he clears his throat.
“What the hell is that?”
Oh. Fuck.
Tom looks like he went to sleep in his slacks and rolled out of bed. There’s no tie at his neck. His shirt is wrinkled. And his face has that pinched look, as though he hasn’t slept.
“Um that is my baby.” My cheeks burn. Hell, I can feel my whole face on fire as though Tom’s a tiki torch. “Our baby.”
“Did you say what I think you said? Our baby?”
“Yes.”
He mouths the words over and over again, trying to make sense of them. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I got knocked up right before you kicked us out of the country. Her name is Emma. She’s thirteen months old, and I never told you about her.”
The shame. It’s back in full force. I swallow it down as he approaches me, fury etched in every