I mean, he broke my first boyfriend’s arm in three places because he didn’t walk me all the way to my door.
I’ve never had a shortage of men in my life that do for me, which is why I somehow feel guilty when I find myself missing my father.
But, none of themaremy father. And history is repeating itself.
I want my bean to have the chance to really know him, even if he’s an adulterous geriatric asshole.
Which is why I find myself saying, “Promise me you’ll leave him alone. I’m serious, Cain.”
He bristles at the use of his first name. “I should snap his neck just for that.”
All three of the Triplets hate their names. Their mothers were all in competition for Uncle Junior’s heart, and their names reflect it.
Cain, the firstborn by literally eighteen hours, named for the first son of Adam.
Who killed his brother. I’m sure she did that on purpose.
Then, Prince Charming, for being the son of the king, I guess? The name fits though, since YP is objectively insanely attractive, and very charismatic. You almost can excuse how psychopathic he is, because he’s so handsome.
Almost.
And then my girlie, YT, named True, as in, her mother believed she was the only Young triplet that was actually Junior’s. A True Young.
I’ll let her tell you what she did when she found out she wasn’t Junior’s biological daughter.
“But you won’t, because I asked you to. And you love me.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth Deeze. And bring Dal to come see YT before she has Prince blow up that shiny new building.” With that, he hangs up like the meanie he is.
I blow hot air and get out of bed. I’m up, might as well sneak a sundae in.
I stop at the mirror by the room door, and stake stock of my body. I’m six months, and baby girl got my hipsfinallyspreading.
Having PCOS unfortunately made ya girl top heavy. I’d always had ample breasts, which came with a side of tummy. But the hips and ass were left off the menu. Now, I’m still one of the baddest to walk the earth, and niggas love to grab on what’s not back there and make me feel like I got an apple bottom, but sadly it’s all in our imagination.
Not anymore!
Nope, my tummy’s expanding, but these hips are preparing for childbirth, too. Booty still a little… little, but I mean, me having a fire body, brains, and an amazing personality would be too much.
I’d be like Rico, and I know beating groupies off with a stick all day is exhausting.
I mean… I’m still fieldingHow you been?messages from niggas I met in college.
I cradle my bump, swooning at myself.
“Hips poking… titties sitting ca-yute, even though you finna make ‘em sag… okayyy daughtaaa!”
I turn to the side and examine my cuff. “I could build an ass in the gym… yeah right,” I cackle to myself and skip down to the kitchen.
One chocolate sundae with bananas and Denver’s gummy bears later, I’m prancing into the TV room, but stop short when I see the top of some braids on the couch.
My eyes roll so hard I’m surprised they’re not stuck.Ugh, this nigga.
I’ve been actively avoidingShaddyfor a couple days now. Partly because I know he’s going through it, so I can’t cut him how I want to, and partly because, surprisingly, my feelings are a little hurt. I mean, he was just doing the most, being my fake baby daddy, taking me to lunch, making me not eat dairy and shit… to just dismiss me when that bitch disrespected me.
Then, the blogs posting my picture got myactualniggas hitting me up, asking me why I let his ass take me out the game. Trippy’s ass sent me twenty-two laughing emojis in our group chat with PC.
“I know that’s you, Mace.”
