Tragedy On Silverdale Road

End

"Fucking hell."

If this doctor doesn't help me get this damn child out of me I will personally castrate him. Nine fucking months of constant sex, backaches, cravings, and even more sex, and at this point I'm done.

Bryson stares down at his purpling hand. Thanks for my boa constrictor grip on his manus he gets to feel a pinch of the grippingly pain I feel right now.

This entire journey has been painful. Our first month as a married couple was anything but easy. I become distant, the weight of being a newlywed plus a new mother was too much to bear. Bryson, on the other hand, forced his way back to me. As our child grew more and more, a sense of abandonment grew in me as well. Having a baby is big. It's a big deal. If this baby hated me and Bryson eventually grew bored, I'd have no one. So, I backed away.

Months and months of Bryson tickling and bothering me have lead to this moment. The moment I have to push an eight pound, foot and a half long, person out of me.

"Kitten? You there?" His blue eyes shine brighter than I've ever seen. He's excited. He's been waiting for this. Bryson wants this baby so bad. I have to give him one. I have to. I love this piece of shit too much.

"I fucking love you." A crippling contraction runs through my exhausted body. "But let's think about baby number two thoroughly before doing this ag-ain."

"Violet, on the next contraction--."

"Fuuuuuck!"

"--push."

➖✖➖

If this baby doesn't fucking attach to my nipple I will lose it. Five minutes of attepting to breast feed and this child is not cooperating.

Finally, Junior latches on. For the first time in my entire life, I've done something successful. Besides get impregnated.

Bryson insisted on naming his first son after himself. With led to our first argument as parents. Today's just full of firsts. After a lengthy back and forth I caved to his demand, on the premise that I get the final word on baby number two's name.

But I am not worrying about that for many, many years.

Possibly a decade.

"How's my son doing?" A cheeky smile lights up my bald headed man's face. Awe, he looks just like Junior.

"The same as he was doing before you left. Fine."

"I see giving birth hasn't changed your negative attitude."

I mumble under my breath. "I see giving birth hasn't changed your negative attitude." Then louder. "Fu--dge off."

Changing my speaking habits is especially hard when it's been my crutch for, don't know, seven years.

I watch our son nurse then look back up at my dear husband of six months.

"You think we'll make it?" One of Bryson's eyebrows shoots up in question. "Think we'll be together forever and have more babies and be happy?" I softly stroke the fine hairs on the back of Junior's head. "Think we'll be enough for him? For the God knows how many more babies we'll make?" Warm tears gather in my green eyes as they click with my favorite blues. "Think we'll all be okay?"

My husband's callused hands cup my now damp cheeks, his thumbs slowly stroking oncoming tears away. "Oh my good, sweet lord, I am so deeply in love with your insecure ass. Shut the hell up and nurse my son before I ship you off and get someone to replace you."

I laugh softly, my fingers never stopping the soft strokes on my baby's head. "I love him. I love him so much."

"I told you we needed a baby."

A playful slap is delivered to his deliciously muscled bicep. This cocky piece of shit managed to get me pregnant.

Great.

"Aren't we just a set of tragedies," I chuckle up at him. Junior releases me and I quickly cover up. For all I know, Bryson will want a turn. Little perverted bastard has been trying for at least a month.

"We are, instead, tragedies living on Silverdale Road."

Rocking Junior to sleep, a snort slips out of my nose. "Tragedy on Silverdale Road."