Wiping her tears, she got off the floor, the sound of screaming babies echoing through the house. Numbly, she walks to the playpen, scooping up first one, then the other red faced shrieking baby. Bottles are taken from the warmer and popped into hungry little mouths as she struggles not to cry. It HURTS. She listens to the sound of hungry babies eating as she thinks about what to do next. Studying the babies, she is again reminded why she didn't take the pill, why abortion was not an option. Fiona, the girl, is an easy going curious seeming baby, while the boy always looks mad and is never afraid to voice his tiny anger in the form of screaming. She's fast becoming adept at baby juggling, managing to shift one to burp and then the other. They fall asleep fast, and then, she leans forward to grab the journal.

"I guess I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. I thought he wouldn't be able to snatch the ring from my finger and walk away. It's not my fault they aren't his. It's not their fault, either. I tried to explain, but I couldn't. Couldn't voice how rather than get rid of them, give them away, I had to have them. Something inside dictating that they should be here, before I even knew who they were. They are brown, like me, but all over them I see him.. in their funny colored eyes, their lighter skin. But they aren't his, or even mine. They are their OWN. My friend asked how I could stand to give them his name, and my son especially. It's easy, because they are their own little selves. Their names don't describe who they are. I fall in love more with them hour by hour, alone here at the house. Their demands for care run me ragged, test my short patience, but then there is a finger grab, a long look, or a quieting when I'm near, holding on to one or the other. They KNOW me, some kinda way, it seems. We fall asleep together, wake up together, and even though I want to fall apart, I know I have to keep it together. If for no other reason than to pump the breastmilk, heat the bottles, change the diapers. they are training me, not the other way around. And everytime I look at their faces, I see crazy hints of me, and what must be hints of him. Juggs. He can't be all rotten, can he? If he could contribute half on two such amazing, perfect little things? Pfft. Who the fuck am I kidding? He is that evil, and I can remember exactly how much so easily. It's just crazy that such insane violence from such a crazy, stupid fucker can in the end leave these ultra-cute, sweet little babies. I wonder if he thinks about them, knows I had them, anything. He can say whatever he wants to online- they ARE his. I have the test results and the broken engagement to prove it. I wonder if he will ever try to know them, or if he will be some shadow I have to explain. Zim knew when he looked at them, and I would have to0 had I not already. Such remarkable gray eyes on my son.. They make me feel so odd when I look at them. I feel such a crushing responsibility, for not one but TWO lives. I'm supposed to teach them to be good people? What do I know besides how to shake my ass and roll blunts? Then, I feel a fear- for them, ,for me. They make me vulnerable in a way I hate. Someone could hurt them, and hurt me. Because I do love them, although I don't really know how to do it. I want them to have a better life than I did. I want them to know that they are important. I want to make them strong, and smart, and.. ready for the world, I guess. Gotta be a HUGE joke on God's part, giving them to me for all that..."

She closes the book and tosses it on the coffee table, constant tiredness still dogging her every moment. Shifting her daughter over, she curls around them on the couch, her yes fluttering closed quickly as she reminds herself she has just a few hours before both cocoa beans will be up, screaming, wet, hungry and needing her. Falling asleep, she feels less worried than before, both babies sleeping near and the house quiet.