TIMOFEY
"My Timmy," Mom always said.
Then I look again and she's gone. Trish is back. Her blonde hair is limp and greasy on her scalp and tears stream down her cheeks.
"Stop crying," I bark again. "It won't help."
She sniffles. Her chin curls and dimples as she fights back more useless wails. "Are you going to take them?"
"Who?"
"The kids!" she says. "My babies. They're too little to be away from me. You can't take a newborn from her mother."
"Olivia is without her mother right now. No one knows where she is." She starts to cry again, but I clap my hands in front of her in one loud crack. "Stop crying."
"You don't understand," she sobs. "You don't have children."
"I do, actually. A baby boy."
She looks over at me, and the misery on her face lifts. She smiles.
"Congratulations. Children are a gift from God."
