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God, you tried so hard.
You never had a clue in fuck what you were doing. There was never anyone around to ask, you didn't have anyone. All you had was the tiny scraps of information about babies your uncaring mind had gleaned from living in foster homes alongside them.
You really tried so hard.
The formula was cheap and shitty because you couldn't afford any better, but you always bought him enough even if it meant you had to go without. Sometimes you heated the bottle up too hot and it burned his tiny mouth and he squalled and squalled until you wanted to cry too. You'd fucked up again and as he got older you wondered if the terrible stomachaches he got were from that shitty formula. You'd just rub his belly and pray he didn't throw up this time. Your own stomach clenched, what was wrong with this kid? What had you managed to do to him?
You couldn't do anything right.
There was no way you ever found to scold him without making him cry. You had always known you could sound pretty fucking threatening, but weren't you turning it off? He knew you didn't really mean it.
He must.
You knew you were hard on him, but you looked at every little knock he gained by your hands and all you could see was him laying on the battlefield with it multiplied a thousandfold and it made you push him harder, harder. It made you rougher and meaner; you couldn't stand the thought of him bleeding out, failing, alone. You dreamt about it anyways and sometimes you'd wake up with a wet face, go stand in his doorway and watch his chest rise and fall.
He broke his damn arm and you were helping him home, your own arms trying to form a protective cage without what you'd call all of your consent. He was leaning on you, making these horrible little snuffling breaths that told you he was trying to fight down the pain, trying desperately not to cry. You just had to get him inside, then you'd give him as much asprin as you thought he could handle and call the fucking ambulance. The way he cradled that arm to his chest made you feel pretty profoundly fucking sick. You could hardly look.
The neighbor emerged from her door, wrapped in a bathrobe, her glare spitting cobras. “This is enough! I'm going to call child protection, you monster!”
You almost puked. Your arm tightened around Dave's shaking shoulders, your fingers going white-knuckled on his bicep. Was it him shaking, or was it you? You pushed him inside, swallowing down the bile, keeping up your pokerface, looking right at him through your shades and willing him to believe that hadn't happened. He knew you wouldn't, right? He'd be laughing right now if he weren't fucked up on agony and adrenaline.
He would. Really.
You tried so fucking hard.