Chapter 1 #2
She’s probably already judging me, but I don’t give a fuck what she thinks of me.
I might not know the first thing about raising a baby, but I already know that little girl will be safer with me than in foster care, or wherever else she might end up.
Mary can assume whatever she wants, but there’s no way I’m letting my niece go through what Violet and I did as kids.
She gives me another once-over before speaking. “Would you like to meet your niece first? Then we can have a chat and see if you … umm … you fit the criteria to be her temporary carer until something more permanent can be established.”
Her tone is cautious, like she’s not sure if she’s talking to a potential guardian or someone she should be calling security on.
I guess I can’t blame her for that. I know I look intimidating, and she’d be right.
I rough people up for a living, but the thought of meeting Violet’s little girl hits me harder than I expected.
For the first time in years, I’m not sure if I’m ready for what’s waiting on the other side.
I follow Mary down the hall. I’m suddenly unsure if I’m even up to this—maybe I’m not the better choice—but I’m not about to turn my back on my niece if she needs me.
Each step I take feels slower than the last, and my chest tightens. When Mary stops outside a small room and pushes the door open, the world narrows to the soft beeping of machines and the faint scent of antiseptic.
I pause at the doorway, and from here, I can already see how small my niece is.
She barely takes up half the hospital crib.
She’s wrapped in a pale-pink blanket with a tiny hat covering her head.
Tubes run from her fragile body to a monitor beside the crib.
The gentle rhythm of her breathing is somehow both calming and terrifying.
I love my sister, but a part of me hates her for what she’s done to this innocent little life. How could she have such disregard for her own daughter?
For a long moment, I stand rooted to the spot.
My throat feels thick, and my hands hang uselessly by my sides.
I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life—violence, loss, the kind of pain that changes a person—but nothing could’ve prepared me for this.
This tiny baby looks so delicate, so breakable, like one wrong move could crush her.
When I finally step closer, something inside me cracks wide open.
I don’t know her, but she’s blood. My sister’s little girl.
My niece. And standing here, looking down at her, all I can think is that no matter how screwed up my life’s been, she deserves better.
She deserves a chance, and it’s enough to solidify my decision; I’ll be damned if I let the system take her away from me.
“What’s her name?” I ask, trying hard to reel in my emotions as I look down at the baby. When my sister cut me out of her life a few years ago, I quickly fell back into a solitary existence, but I’m suddenly not feeling so alone anymore.
When Mary doesn’t answer me, my eyes flicker in her direction. “Her … umm … parents didn’t give her a name. When I spoke with your sister and her partner this morning and told them the child would be going into care temporarily, she checked herself out of the hospital and left.”
I stare at her for a beat, letting the words sink in, then shake my head in disgust. Was she rushing off for another hit?
The Violet I knew would never have been so careless, so cold hearted.
She used to cradle stray kittens as if they were treasures and cry when she saw someone else get hurt.
But I’m starting to realise that version of her is long gone, buried under the haze of addiction and bad choices.
She’s become a stranger, one who walked away from her own child without looking back. After everything we went through as kids—the fear, the loneliness, the endless waiting for someone to care—her leaving like this is inexcusable. She knows better. Or at least, she used to.
My hands clench into fists by my side as I try to rein in the anger that is clawing my insides. The muscles in my jaw tighten, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at the tiny rise and fall of the baby’s chest. She didn’t ask for any of this. None of it.
“Would you like to hold her?” Mary asks, her voice gentle, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I glance at her, uncertain. The idea of holding something so small and fragile terrifies me more than I’d ever admit. But then I look back at the crib, at her, and my black heart clenches in my chest.
“Yeah,” I manage to voice. “Yeah, I would.”
Mary sets the folder down before carefully lifting the baby into her arms. “The nurses have been caring for her since her birth, but it’s important for a baby to feel a connection,” Mary says quietly. “Love makes a difference, even this early. They can feel it, you know. The warmth and the safety.”
She gestures for me to sit in the recliner beside the cot. When I do, she steps forward, being mindful of the wires still connected to the baby, and gently places this tiny, fragile life in my arms. The only other time I held a newborn was when Violet was born.
I was only three, so I don’t remember it, but I can picture the framed photo that used to sit on the mantel in our lounge room. Me grinning like an idiot, holding her like she was the most important thing in the world. A happier time before our lives were turned upside down.
I inhale through my nose as I carefully press my niece into my chest; she barely weighs anything.
I hold my breath, afraid to move too much, but the emotions swirling inside me are real.
She stirs and lets out a soft sigh, and something shifts, something fierce, protective … something almost painful.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m holding something that actually matters.
I stare down at her sweet little face and see traces of my sister in her, the same button nose, the same plump bottom lip that Violet used to stick out whenever she didn’t get her way.
My hand gently runs over the baby’s tiny head, and her soft, rounded cheeks make her look like a peach, warm and perfect in a way the world doesn’t deserve. Her skin has that fragile pink glow, like she’s been brushed with sunlight.
“Peach,” I murmur as my chest tightens.
The name feels right, soft on my tongue, like it belongs to her.
The low, gravelly rumble of my voice makes the baby stir, blinking up at me as she opens her eyes for the first time since I walked in. When she makes a small sound in response, I swear my heart forgets how to beat for a second.
“Peach?” Mary repeats, but I can tell it’s more of a question than a statement.
My eyes flicker from my niece’s face to hers. “Her name,” I state. “That’s what I’m going to call her, Lil’ Peach.”