Come Clean. Terri Paddock

I’m holding Christy and you’re holding the bottle. ‘That’s a good girl, drink it all up.’

      Mommy cracks the door open and leans into the room with her head and shoulders to see what we’re playing. ‘Everything OK, kids?’

      ‘Yup.’

      She ventures further into the room, a light-bulb-bright smile pasted on. ‘You hungry? Need anything?’

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘Oh. OK, then.’ She waits, looming Godzilla-like at the edge of the nursery. ‘Do you want me to help you feed Christy?’

      ‘No, Mommy, we can do it,’ you say petulantly. ‘Besides, there’s only one Christy Crybaby.’

      ‘I know that, Mister Man.’ She wants to reach out and muss your hair but catches herself.

      ‘Mommy,’ I chip in, this is part of the plan, ‘we need another baby. Please can we have a baby sister now, a real baby?’

      ‘Please Mommy, pretty please with cherries on top.’

      Mommy’s arms are crossed but loose, now she locks them down tight against her tummy. She chews her lip. ‘No.’

      ‘But why not? You’re no fun.’

      Mommy’s eyes start to swim. ‘I’m afraid not. No.’