Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
After carrying him into his room, I get that diaper on him and then wrangle him into an outfit. It’s a one-piece with short sleeves and shorts. I don’t really know what it’s actually called—a romper, maybe? Anyway, it’s got a football on it, which he loves. He is my son, after all.
“What’s that?” I point to his chest.
“Ball!” he exclaims.
“You’re a genius,” I tell him, not that he understands what that means. “Okay, let’s get some shoes,” I say as my phone rings. Camden races off to the corner of the room and starts pulling books off his shelf as I retrieve my phone from my back pocket. “It’s Mommy. I bet she’s on her way,” I tell my son, who ignores me. “Hey,” I answer.
“Baker, dear, how are you?”
Turning my back to my son, I roll my eyes. How I ever slept with this woman is beyond me. She’s a knockout, but she’s also fake as hell and annoying as fuck, among other things. “What’s up? You on your way?” I ask her.
“About that, I’m still in Paris.”
I have to clench my jaw to keep from going off on her. Not because I want time away from my son, but because she’s missing his life, and it pisses me the fuck off that he doesn’t have a mother who puts him first. “Delayed flight?” I ask, when I know damn good and well what the answer is going to be.
“No, nothing with the flight. They asked me to do another shoot for a new and upcoming designer, and I couldn’t tell them no.”
She could have told them no. She doesn’t need the money. She does well for herself, and I pay her a large lump sum monthly for child support, even though we have shared parenting. I want to make sure my son never goes without. I also cover Mrs. Ward’s salary, so I know that Natasha is not hurting financially, but it’s not stopping her from prioritizing her career. Maybe I should suggest she talk to Bellamy about how that affects a kid, but I won’t. I’m keeping my mouth shut. “So when are you coming home?”
“I’m staying another two weeks.”
“So you’re going three weeks without seeing our son?”
“He’s not even two yet. He won’t remember. Besides, he has you and Mrs. Ward to take care of him. He won’t even miss me.” Someone calls her name in the background. “Gotta go,” she says, and the line goes dead.
Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I focus on deep, even breaths. She didn’t ask about him or want to talk to him. I just don’t understand how she can care so little about our boy. I call her every day, multiple times a day sometimes, when it’s her week to check on him, to talk to him. She’s never once done that. At first, I thought maybe I was being a helicopter dad, but then I quickly changed my mind. I love my son. I care about him, his day, and his well-being. If that makes me a helicopter dad, then fuck it, I’ll own that title.
“Book!” Camden comes toddling toward me with a book in his hand. “Read.” He stretches out his little arms to hand me the book.
“Looks like you’re staying with Daddy, kiddo,” I tell him, as I settle on the plush carpet. I’m barely seated before he’s climbing onto my lap and settling in for a story. “One book, and then we’re going to see your aunts and uncles and baby Coral.”
“Baby.” He nods.
He loves his baby cousin. Sure, they’re not really related, but blood doesn’t make you family. Look at his mother. “All right, bud, let’s do this.” I open the book and begin to read. By the time I reach the last page, Camden’s eyes are closed. Carefully, I climb to my feet and settle him in bed before quietly tiptoeing out of the room.
Across the hall, I shut my bedroom door and drop down on the bed. My heart breaks for my son, and angry tears prick my eyes. I fucking hate Natasha for how she treats him, as if he’s a pair of shoes she left behind before jet-setting off to Europe. I’ll always be grateful to her for giving me my son. I’m aware that the outcome of the pregnancy news could have been different, and I love that little boy with all that I am. However, I hate her, too. Lying back on the bed, I take a few deep breaths and slowly exhale.
I need to call Mrs. Ward and let her know where she’ll need to be next week. She’s off this weekend. Her daughter and son-in-law are in town visiting. I might as well get that out of the way. I hate interrupting her time with them, but she should know where she’s supposed to be on Monday. I’ll make it quick, I decide, as I tug my phone out of my shorts pocket and dial her number.