“This is your daughter!” she snapped. “Not that calf! Look closely. Look at her tiny face. That’s your real, flesh-and-blood daughter!”
I froze. I stared at the photo, stunned. A delicate little figure, eyes not even open yet. So soft. So fragile. And then the stench hit me. A metallic tang, sharp and thick. Blood? Suddenly, horrifying images flashed through my mind—images that didn’t belong. That same soft pink baby, torn apart by countless sharp teeth. Her cries silenced before they could even begin. Her blanket soaked red. It was as if a blade was being driven into my chest, not once but over and over, slowly scraping through bone, tearing at the rawest parts of me. Every cut slow. Every wound dripping. I jolted, breath catching in my throat. In the distance, I heard a faint moo. Childish. Innocent.
The calf had stumbled into a mud pit again. I bolted.
Without thinking, I raced toward it, scooping it into my arms and holding it close. “It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s here. Don’t cry. You’re safe now.”
But Ginny came storming after me, her eyes wild with fury and heartbreak. With all her strength, she slapped me across the face.
“Tom, don’t you dare push me any further!”