Wren’s hand clenches mine harder. I know this isn’t what she wants. I don’t want it either. I love my granddaughter already, but she should be with her parents. Hell, she should have two competent adults for parents instead of the fuckup I raised and the slut who chose her best friend’s husband over a lifetime of friendship, but as I’ve been taught frequently, life isn’t fair.
Ms. Palmer reminds me of my ninth-grade biology teacher. Harriston is a jeans and blue collar kind of town, and yet my teacher always came in wearing a blazer, dress shirt buttoned to the neck, and a skirt that fell somewhere mid-calf. Even at the start of the year, when the inside of the school was as hot as a sauna and smelled like the boys’ locker room after practice, she still wore the same clothes.
This woman might have dress slacks instead of a boxy skirt, but she’s still way overdressed for a town that sports more denim than tweed. I can also tell she’s one of those types who looks down her way too sharp nose at grease monkeys like me. She doesn’t see a business owner when she looks at me. Her type, judges worth by the degrees on your wall and the zeroes in your bank account.
Social workers are criminally underpaid for the work they do, but something tells me money isn’t a problem for her. She carries herself with a confidence that only comes with the freedom of never having to worry if you’ll be able to pay all yourbills and eat, or having had to choose between power and water. Only someone who comes from money thinks wearing pearls when dealing with struggling families is a good look. A person can be pretty and ugly at the same time it just depends on how much of their soul shines through.
I can tell she is not impressed by me. She probably thinks that she’s presenting a professional demeanor, but I didn’t miss the way her nose crinkled when she saw the state of my hands. I usually do a good job cleaning the grease out of my nails, but I had to check a few things on my truck before we left home this morning.
Her eyes bounce between Wren and me, and I can tell she’s also doing math. I know I look good for a man in his early forties. I could probably pass for several years younger due to a life of no smoking and only drinking occasionally, and even then only in moderation. I have a few crows’ feet, and there’s a bit of silver starting to sprout up at my temples, but thanks to having a physically demanding job, I’m far from looking like a fragile old man. However, I do not look like a man in his mid-twenties. Wren turned twenty-four a couple of months ago, but people often mistake her for younger. I know we don’t look like we fit.
Ms. Palmer clears her throat and clicks her pen, ready to fill out her precious paperwork. “Are you married, Mr. Hale?”
Unlike her, I’m making no effort to control my expressions. My face is practically shouting, at least until Wren subtly elbows me in the side. “Yes, I’m married.”
She makes a noise that sounds like she’s both clearing her throat and judging me at the same time. It’s not a full, “Ahem,” but it carries the same judgmental tone. “And will your wife be joining you and your daughter here?”
Her pen is poised over the paper, eyes wide open and blinking. Not for a second do I believe she thinks I’ve beenholding hands with my adult, pregnant daughter. But asking that question allowed her to speak her mind.
My Baby Bird has a spine of steel, though, and she never seems to let the opinions of others bring her down. Her shoulders roll back, and her chin tips up. “I am his wife.”
Ms. Palmer’s mouth gapes open and closed over and over. “Well, I have to be honest and tell you I’m concerned. You are clearly much younger than Mr. Hale. When did you two meet? I need to make sure there wasn’t any predatory behavior before I place a child in your custody.”
“In a town the size of Harriston, everyone knows everyone, at least on the surface. When I met her the first time isn’t as important as when we got together. And to answer what I’m sure is your next question, that was almost a year ago.”
There’s a knock on the door frame, and Hattie pokes her head in. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, fucking fantastic. Apparently, I might be a predator,” I snap. See, sometimes I have a tendency to let my mouth run when I shouldn’t.
Hattie winces. “How did she find out you used to be married to his son?” she points her question to Wren.
Wren’s green eyes open wide, and she’s subtly shaking her head, but the damage is done.
Ms. Palmer sets her pen down on top of the stack of papers. “I’m shocked. I don’t see how I can place an innocent baby in a home with an incestuous family.”
I narrow my eyes. I’m not trying hard to hold shit in anymore. “You do know we aren’t biologically related, right? Shewasmarried to my son, past tense. The existence of this little one,” I make a sweeping gesture toward the crib, “should explain to you why. Not that it’s your business, but our relationship developed from that betrayal.”
Her back is held ramrod straight, and her entire demeanor drips with disdain. “Actually, Mr. Hale, it absolutely is my business. Frankly, I don’t think you are fit to raise a child, at least not with proper morals.”
“And who is the judge of what is moral? You?” I press.
Wren’s hand squeezes mine, her nails leaving half-moon indents in my skin. Her other hand goes over her belly protectively. Where we come from, we’ve seen some horror stories of when self-righteous social workers set about their job like they’re on a crusade. This is where people get the sense that the system is broken. Too often, we see children dealing with the shittiest circumstances, while another child is removed from a loving home simply because they’re poor.
It’s pretty clear that this woman is more the crusader type than the ones who go into the field and fight the fight. Wren is clearly worried that we’ve just entered her radar right when our own child is nearly here.
Hattie is making an exaggerated tilting of her head, until I realize my free hand is clenched into a fist—a gesture Ms. Palmer doesn’t miss.
“It’s concerning to me that you have a child on the way—” Ms. Palmer begins, but is cut off by Hattie loudly clearing her throat.
“Before you continue with whatever you were about to say, let me remind you that while you may come from money, you do not come from here. Wren is the daughter of two of the most beloved people who ever lived in this area. Her mother was my sister, and if I do say so myself, I’m quite respected here. Especially considering I went off to college and came back when they were desperately short of nurses with experience in trauma. Then there’s Griffin, who has fixed practically every car in both Pine Bluff and Harriston, including every government official vehicle in town. Trust me, there isn’t a soul in Harriston that doesn’t know how the two of them fell in love, and when. Youwon’t get anywhere trying to speak against them, unless where you want to go is out of town,” Hattie warns.
I watch Ms. Palmer shrink before us. She might not respect me, or even Wren, but Hattie is clearly in a position of authority at this hospital. It might be over the nurses, not the whole hospital, but Hattie carries herself with the confidence and power of someone who takes no shit.
“What I was going to say,” Ms. Palmer begins again, “is that I’m concerned that you are very close to having a baby, and won’t be able to take care of two.”
That is absolutely not what she was going to say. I’d be impressed if I weren’t so pissed off. She took a detour around the dangers of going after Wren and me, but she is still going to prevent us from bringing my granddaughter home with us.
My voice is low, and I can’t help the grumbling tone of it when I say, “My granddaughter is not going into the system. She stays with family.”
