Chapter 5
Dominic
When I pull up out front of my place with Lil’ Peach, it feels surreal. Me with a baby; I never thought I’d see the day. Kids were never in the cards. Hell, nothing soft ever was. Yet here I am.
I take a slow breath before exiting the vehicle, moving towards the back door. She’s there, my sweet little niece, fast asleep with her tiny hand curled around the strap of her car seat, like it’s a lifeline.
Somehow, this kid has managed to worm her way straight into my heart. From the moment I saw her, she had me. And I already know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this little girl. No line I wouldn’t cross to keep her safe.
My stomach knots as I stare down at her. I’m again reminded how fragile she is, and it doesn’t seem possible that something so tiny can cause such chaos in my head.
She’s been to hell and back since the moment she entered this world. I had to stand there powerless as I watched her tiny body shake through withdrawals she didn’t deserve.
My sister’s done some pretty shitty things over the years, but this one feels different. It cuts deeper than any of her other betrayals, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive her for it.
The fact that she never once came back to the hospital, never asked about her own kid or tried to fight for her, makes my blood boil. She just walked away like it was nothing, like this tiny life didn’t matter. And now here I am, picking up the pieces she left behind once again.
Peach was forced to stay at the hospital longer than normal, all because that selfish bitch cared more about her next hit instead of the life growing inside her. It was careless, reckless, and inexcusable.
The doctors thankfully helped Peach through the worst of it.
They gave her small doses of morphine to ease the pain and wean her off the drugs in her system safely.
It almost fucking broke me, knowing a baby so small had to go through something like that.
She never asked for any of it, but she fought anyway. She’s a survivor.
The nurses said Lil’ Peach was tough. That she was stronger than most grown men they’d seen, and I believe it. She had no say in how things started for her, but she damn sure fought to stick around anyway. I’m in awe of this tiny little human.
“We’re home, baby girl,” I whisper as I lean in to place a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’m going to try my hardest to make sure you’re happy living here with me, and you have a good life.” And although I can’t be sure of any of that, that’s a promise I intend to keep.
The old lady across the street is outside watering her garden as I carefully undo the straps on the car seat and lift Peach into my arms. I’m pretty sure she waters more often than she needs to.
She’s a busybody, and I get the feeling she’s really out here to keep an eye on the comings and goings in the neighbourhood.
It’s like she has nothing better to do, and it pisses me off.
When I stand to full height, cradling the little pink bundle against my chest, my gaze flickers across the street again. My neighbour eyes me sceptically when she notices what I’m holding.
The hose in her hand now hangs limp by her side as water pools around her feet, and the sight has a tiny growl bubbling in the back of my throat. Even from this distance, I can feel her sharp suspicion.
I may be used to being scrutinised and judged daily, but for some reason, this stings even though I pretend it doesn’t. I give her a curt nod but don’t bother looking long enough to see if she returns my gesture. It doesn’t matter anyway.
I’ve never talked to my neighbours. Never saw the point.
They keep their distance, and I keep mine.
I know what they see when they look at me, the same as every other judgmental fucker I’ve met.
The tattoos, the scars, the face that says I’ve seen too much.
They’ve probably already written my story in their heads and think I’m a thug, a screwup, or maybe worse.
Let them. They can whisper, they can judge, they can stare all they want. I don’t give a fuck. I am who I am and make no excuses for that.
When I reach the front door, I balance Peach in one arm like a football—which isn’t hard given her size and the fact that she probably weighs about as much as the black hoodie I’m wearing—and unlock it.
I pause just inside the doorway once I step over the threshold, my eyes moving around my space. I’ve never cared much about material things. When you’re shuffled around from home to home, you don’t get a chance to accumulate stuff, which is why the furniture in here is minimal.
I have what I need and nothing more. A recliner lounge, a coffee table, a TV, a bed, a chest of drawers, and a nightstand. When Mary came, she had to sit on the lone stool at the breakfast island to go over the paperwork, while I stood beside her.
I didn’t skimp on Lil’ Peach’s things, though. She has everything she needs and more. I can only hope this works out so she has a stable place to grow up in.
I’ve been going it alone for a week now, and up until this moment, I was beginning to think I might actually have this whole baby thing figured out. Lil’ Peach has drunk every bottle I offered her, slept soundly in between feeds, and even gave me what I swear was almost a smile earlier today.
The one thing I’m yet to master, though, is the sleep deprivation.
It’s relentless, a quiet kind of torture that seeps into every aspect of your life.
I’ve pulled all-nighters before, but this is different …
it’s deeper, heavier. It’s given me a newfound respect for mothers and the sheer endurance it must take to live like this for months on end.
I honestly feel sorry for any cunt that’s going to have to face me when I finally return to work, because even when I’m well rested, I can be terrifying. I can only imagine what will be left of them once my last bit of mercy has burnt away.
Our first night here, I barely slept a wink, but that was more my doing than Peach’s. I found myself constantly going into the nursery to check on her, standing over her cot, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. For some reason, I was paranoid she’d stop breathing.
Without the security of doctors and nurses on hand, I felt completely exposed. Every little noise she made had my heart jumping. Every tiny twitch or hiccup sent my mind racing. I was suddenly hyper-aware of everything and an anxiety-ridden mess if I’m being honest.
I’ve never worried about my own fate, but the thought of something happening to my niece became an unbearable weight I couldn’t shake, and it takes a lot to rattle me.
Each moment felt stretched thin, and each breath she made seemed fragile. It made me realise how much I’d relied on the invisible safety net of the hospital’s trained hands and machines. Without them, the responsibility felt enormous and suffocating.
The gnawing fear that I might miss something, that a split second could change everything, refused to let go. It was a stark reminder of how thin the line can be between feeling in control and being completely helpless.
In the end, I grabbed a pillow from my bed and lay on the floor beside her cot, too wired to rest but unwilling to step away.
The second night, I relaxed a little, at least enough to sleep in my own bed. I had the baby monitor on and the sensor pad beneath her mattress, programmed to sound an alarm if she stopped breathing for more than twenty seconds, but even that wasn’t enough to fully relax me.
My confidence grew with each passing day, but I’m starting to realise that may have lulled me into a false sense of security, because for the past hour, all she’s done is cry.
Actually, scream is a better word. I’m talking full lungs, red face, and tiny fists flailing in the air like she’s waging war on the world.
“I’ve got you, Lil’ Peach,” I murmur, bouncing her in my arms as I pace the room. I’m not even sure if I believe my own words anymore.
I’m seconds away from taking her back to the hospital. I’ve done everything I was taught to do. I’ve fed her, burped her, and changed her twice. Short of calling in an exorcism, I’ve got nothing.
“What is it, baby girl? You can’t be hungry again, you just ate.”
She answers with another ear-splitting wail that could probably shatter glass. I try a different rhythm, a new bounce, a gentle sway, but nothing does the trick.
I’m about to surrender to the noise when she goes suspiciously quiet. For a brief, blissful second, I think I’ve cracked it, and stupid me actually smiles.
“There we go,” I say proudly, puffing out my chest slightly. And then it happens. Like a tiny, possessed fountain, she projectile vomits with alarming force.
I’m not talking about the little puddles she’s left on my shirt prior; this one drenches my shoulder, arm, and goes clear across the room. I just stand here for a moment, shocked and a little awed, before the panic comes rushing back.
We had a rough night—well, I did. I ended up sleeping on my recliner with Lil’ Peach draped over my bare chest. I woke with a stiff neck and an ache at the base of my spine, but thankfully, there’s been no more vomit.
By late morning, the crying starts again to the point where I’m starting to feel desperate. I know babies cry, but there’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that something else is going on here.
I’m in two minds about taking her back to the hospital. I definitely want her checked out, to make sure there’s nothing sinister happening, but I’m also worried they’ll realise they made a mistake giving her to me.
That hesitation is holding me back, but seeing Peach so distressed has me slinging the baby bag over my shoulder, grabbing my car keys, and heading for the door a few minutes later.