Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
They knew protocols and would hand the baby over to me as soon as he or she was checked over.
I was nervous.
Would I be a good father?
Would all of this work out with Annie?
Would she marry me?
Would she be any better at taking care of a child than I would?
All of these thoughts swirled through my brain as the minutes passed by.
Then suddenly, my world stopped.
The sounds of my child’s cries filled the room, loud and pissed way the fuck off.
“Oh, he’s upset,” the doctor drawled.
He.
I had a boy.
I had a boy!
I looked up in time to see the doctor pass my son off to a waiting nurse who had her hands outstretched with a blanket covering them.
She curled her arms around him expertly, and brought my son over.
Then she handed him to me.
“What do you think?” She asked.
I looked at my son.
At the child that was conceived not in love, but during a desperate circumstance, and I couldn’t love him any more.
I’d been indifferent about the entire situation since I’d found out about it.
Thought about giving him up for adoption.
Thought about having Jennifer abort the baby.
But now that he was in my arms, I couldn’t imagine ever not having him.
He was mine.
And he was perfect.
He had a red splotchy face; a set of lungs that I could just tell would be fun in the future, and a head full of hair that looked exactly like mine.
He had my nose. My hairline.
My everything.
He looked nothing like Jennifer, and for that, I was thankful.
Because I didn’t want to look at my son and be reminded of the fact that he was conceived in such an awful way.
I wanted to look at him and be proud, just as I was now, with what I had.
And Vitaly did make me proud.
Vitaly Andrew Konn.
Chapter 25
I didn’t mean to gain this much weight. It happened by snackcident.
-Annie’s secret thoughts
Annie
I was supremely nervous.
I put on a good show, but I was a mass of nerves as I waited for Mig to come back out of the operating room with his child.
Would it be a girl or a boy?
I’d asked Mig why he didn’t know a few weeks ago, and he’d said that he didn’t want to know, because it didn’t matter.
As long as he or she was healthy, he’d be happy.
And I found that I quite liked the way he thought.
“You need to give them some time before you go in there,” a nurse said callously at my side.
I blinked, turning to her.
It was the one who’d walked Mig into the room.
How she’d gotten out when she’d entered was beyond me, but I wouldn’t be investigating.
“I’m giving them their time,” I said, somewhat annoyed that she even had the gumption to say something like that to me.
She didn’t know my story. She didn’t know Mig. Nor did she know what Jennifer had done to Mig.
All she knew was that I was the other woman, and had decided to judge.
I decided the best choice would be to not respond.
Instead I stood there, waiting for the doors to the operating room to open.
“You’re ignoring me,” the nurse said.
She was right. I was.
“I don’t know what gave you that idea,” I replied softly, my heart beating quickly in my chest.
Was that a cry?
It sounded like a cry!
Then the doors to the operating room opened, and out came a very happy Mig, a smile about a mile wide on his face.
I started taking pictures.
This was too good not to document forever.
I’m so glad that I brought my camera!
“Oh,” I breathed when Mig stopped in front of me.
I went up on my tippy toes, then peeked over the side of the blanket.
“It’s a boy,” Mig rumbled, pride evident in his voice.
My eyes went up to meet his, and a smile transformed my face.
“Congratulations,” I said softly.
He winked.
“Want to hold him?” He asked.
I did. I so did.
I took about fifteen more pictures, then squirted my hands with the hand sanitizer that was on every corner in the hospital.
Once I’d lathered up my hands, I nervously held them out.
Mig placed his baby into my arms, and I started to cry.
Not pretty tears, either.
“Oh, Mig. You did so good,” I whispered.
I looked up at him.
He was looking at me, looking at his son.
“I thought I would hate him,” he started.
I knew that, too.
I knew that was why he hadn’t bought any clothes.
I knew that was why he really refused to know what the sex of the baby was.
I knew that was why I’d never heard him talk about his excitement at having a baby.
Because this baby was made, not out of love or passion, but desperation. Hate.
Jennifer had done that to him.
Had hurt him.
And Mig hadn’t been able to let that go. Hadn’t been able to celebrate like most expectant fathers do.
And he’d been in pain.