It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a mother in possession of a young child must be in want of a crystal ball.
She wasn’t afraid of anything: Smoldering fire; hail storms of passion; blood-sucking leeches, reeking of desire. Bring it on. Her hobnailed boots were made for stomping, and she could dance, by god. She could move. She could run long and fast and still have breath enough to laugh in the face of all that friction. Drive a truck with her old life across country toward her future? Piece of cake.
She, and the man she knew would never try to change her, made a new life in a place where people lived on fried dough and clams. A baby arrived one winter morning weighing less than the four-layer fudge cake she was planning for her birthday later; a clear-eyed boy careening headlong into the world so furiously that he took her breath away.
But time is a forward…
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