Chapter 2: Pregnant Secrets and Deadly Requests

The next morning, my mom was shelling peanuts on the porch. As soon as my dad came in, he started shouting.

The porch creaked under her weight as she worked, the shells piling up in a plastic bowl. The smell of peanuts hung in the air, mixing with the sharp scent of last night’s rain. Dad’s voice shattered the quiet, booming through the doorway.

“Trashy woman, who let you come back? You’re filthy, I don’t want you anymore!”

His words echoed down the street, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I saw Mrs. Jenkins peek through her curtains, then quickly duck out of sight. My mom just kept shelling peanuts, her face blank.

My mom stroked her belly and said she was pregnant.

She spoke softly, almost to herself, her hand moving in slow circles over her swollen stomach. For a moment, she looked proud, like she was holding onto a secret hope.

My dad didn’t even look at her. “Who even knows whose kid that is.”

He sneered, turning away like he couldn’t stand the sight of her. The words hung in the air, ugly and sharp. My mom’s shoulders sagged, but she didn’t say anything back.

My mom pressed her lips together, looking a little hurt. “It’s been two months. The baby’s yours.”

Her voice trembled, but she stood her ground. She looked him in the eye, daring him to deny it. I held my breath, waiting for his reaction.

My dad still wanted to insult her, but just then, Mr. Greene, the head of the town council, walked in. He stared at my mom’s belly, eyes glinting. “Hey Martha, you expecting?”

Mr. Greene always had a way of showing up at the worst times. He wore his Sunday best, even on a Tuesday, and carried himself like he owned the place. His eyes lingered a little too long on my mom’s belly, making my skin crawl.

My mom nodded.

She kept her gaze low, not meeting his eyes. The porch felt smaller with him there, his presence heavy and intrusive.

Mr. Greene nudged my dad. “That’s something. On the ninth, we’re throwing a big party for my mother’s hundredth birthday. She says all she wants is a taste of that unborn lamb you make…”

The way he said it, you’d think he was asking for a slice of pie, not something so strange. His smile was wide, but his eyes were cold. I shivered, even though the sun was out.

My dad’s the most famous cook in Maple Heights. All the old folks know him. They say his unborn lamb is better than anything in the world. But he hadn’t made it in over twenty years. Uncle Roy told him never to make it again—said cooking unborn lamb would ruin your soul.

Uncle Roy was the kind of man who believed in omens and bad luck. He’d spit on the ground whenever someone mentioned unborn lamb, muttering prayers under his breath. Dad always brushed him off, but I could tell the words got to him.

Dad didn’t say a word.

He just stared at the floor, jaw clenched. The silence stretched on, thick as molasses. I wondered what he was thinking, but his face gave nothing away.

Mr. Greene got the hint, grinning as he slipped a thick envelope into Dad’s hand. “Here’s a down payment.”

The envelope looked heavy, stuffed with bills. Dad’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, I saw something like greed—or maybe fear—cross his face. Mr. Greene winked at me, then turned back to Dad.

Dad grinned. “Don’t worry. With Martha helping, there’ll be unborn lamb at the party, no question.”

His smile was too wide, his voice too smooth. He slapped Mr. Greene on the back, and the two of them laughed like old friends. I felt a chill run down my spine.

I stood off to the side, listening. I was confused. We didn’t even own a sheep. How was Dad going to make unborn lamb?

I glanced between them, searching their faces for answers. My mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. The question gnawed at me, but nobody seemed to notice.

After Mr. Greene left, I went to ask my mom. She didn’t answer—just rested her trembling fingers on her pregnant belly.

Her hands shook so much she dropped a peanut shell on the floor. I bent to pick it up, but she waved me away. Her eyes were glassy, lost in thought. I wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t know how.

My mom’s belly grew bigger by the day, so big the buttons on her shirt wouldn’t close, like she might burst any second. Two buttons at the bottom popped off, exposing her swollen belly, covered in strange, dark veins.

The sight made me uneasy. The veins looked almost black, spider-webbing across her skin. I quickly turned away, pretending to fuss with the dishes. I told myself it was just the pregnancy, but deep down, I knew something was wrong.

I quickly looked away and went to the kitchen to make lunch.

The kitchen was quiet, the only sound the drip of the faucet. I tried to focus on slicing bread and peeling apples, anything to keep my mind off what I’d just seen.

Dad came in carrying a big metal tub. “Take this to your mom,” he said, shoving it into my hands.

The tub was heavy, water sloshing over the sides. I nearly dropped it, the cold metal burning my palms. Dad didn’t even look at me as he turned back to the pantry.

I looked down. Inside were dozens of live catfish, slithering in the water, making weird noises. It made my skin crawl.

The fish twisted and writhed, their bodies slick and shiny. I’d never seen so many at once. The smell was sharp and earthy, filling the room.

I turned to take it to Mom, but Dad blocked me. “Where you going?”

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with narrowed eyes. I swallowed hard, trying not to look scared.

“I’m going to make soup for Mom.”

I kept my voice steady, hoping he wouldn’t notice how nervous I was. My hands shook, and I nearly spilled the tub.

Dad gave me a strange smile. “No need, just give them to her like this.”

His grin was unsettling, teeth yellowed from too much tobacco. He leaned in close, his breath hot on my face. I took a step back, heart pounding.

I frowned. “What? Just like this?”

I glanced at the fish, then back at him. The idea made my stomach turn. I couldn’t believe he was serious.

Was he really going to make Mom eat them raw? Was this some new way to torment her?

The thought made me sick. I wanted to argue, but I knew better than to push him when he was in one of his moods.

I pressed my lips together. “Dad, Mom’s pregnant. Raw food has parasites—it’s not good for the baby…”

I tried to sound reasonable, hoping he’d listen for once. My voice was barely more than a whisper.

Dad grew impatient and smacked me on the head. “You don’t know anything! Folks in other countries eat raw food all the time and they’re strong as oxen. Raw food’s got more nutrients!”

His words were sharp, and his hand was even sharper. I rubbed the spot where he hit me, biting back tears. There was no point arguing.

I didn’t dare argue, so I carried the tub to my mom.

The water sloshed onto my shoes, soaking my socks. I tried to keep my head down, hoping nobody would see the tears in my eyes. The hallway felt longer than ever.

Her eyes lit up when she saw what I brought. She grabbed a catfish and shoved it straight into her mouth. It was still wriggling, trying to escape, but she swallowed it whole, letting it slide down her throat.

I stared, horrified. The fish disappeared down her throat, and she licked her lips like she’d just eaten something delicious. I backed away, unsure if I should be afraid or disgusted.

I suddenly thought of a dish Dad made at Christmas—catfish baked with cornbread. When the pan heated up, the catfish would burrow into the cornbread to keep cool. I felt like my mom was just like that cornbread now…

I remembered how the cornbread puffed up in the oven, golden and warm, with little tunnels where the fish tried to hide. It made me sad, thinking of my mom trying to burrow away from everything bad in her life.

After that, Dad started having me bring all kinds of strange things to my mom—scallions, ginger, garlic, and all sorts of seasonings.

The kitchen filled with odd smells, and the pantry emptied faster than usual. Each time I brought her something new, she’d eat it without a word, her eyes never meeting mine. The whole house felt off-kilter.

The fear in my heart kept growing. I held my mom’s hand and begged, “Mom, let’s run away. I’ve had this bad feeling lately, and Dad’s been acting weird. I’m scared he’ll hurt you…”

My voice trembled, and I squeezed her hand tight. I kept glancing at the door, half-expecting Dad to burst in. My chest ached with worry.

My mom said, “Run? How? The whole town’s watching.”

She sounded tired, defeated. Her eyes flicked to the window, where Mrs. Jenkins’ curtains fluttered. I knew she was right—Maple Heights had eyes everywhere.

“Then you run. I’ll stay and cover for you.”

I tried to sound brave, but my voice cracked. I’d do anything to keep her safe, even if it meant staying behind. My heart pounded in my chest.

She laughed. “If I really did run, you’d be beaten to death.”

Her laugh was bitter, not happy. She squeezed my hand, just once, then let go. I looked down, wishing things were different.

I held her cold hand, looking into her eyes. “It’s okay, Mom. As long as you’re safe. I’m just trying to pay you back for giving me life.”

“I really love you, Mom. I’d die for you.”

The words spilled out before I could stop them. My throat tightened, and I blinked away tears. I meant every word, even if she couldn’t believe it.

Her smile froze. She was silent for a while, then took a small silver cross from her pocket and hung it around my neck. Out of nowhere, she said, “If one day I don’t recognize you, prick your finger—just one drop of blood.”

Her hands trembled as she fastened the chain. The cross felt cool against my skin. I stared at her, confused, but she just looked away. The room felt colder than before.

“Mom, what are you talking about? Are you sick?” I looked at her, worried.

I reached out, but she pulled away. Her eyes filled with something like fear—or maybe regret. I wanted to hug her, but she wouldn’t let me.

She shook her head and said nothing more, leaving the room by herself.

I watched her go, the cross heavy on my chest. I pressed my fingers to the silver, hoping it would bring me comfort. It didn’t.

I touched the cross she’d given me. It was the first gift I’d ever gotten from her. I couldn’t describe how I felt inside. That night, I went back to my room and had a good dream.

I dreamed of a place where Mom smiled and Dad never raised his voice. Where the kitchen smelled like cookies instead of fear, and nobody ever had to run away. I held onto that dream like a secret.