“This has gone on long enough. I think we should call it Quits,” he snaps as I pick up our son, hooking him on my hip. Sometimes it helps and he stops crying. Sometimes it doesn’t. The yelling doesn’t help. You’d think he’d be used to it by now.
We shouldn’t have had a baby. It was one of those, we’re growing apart maybe a child will keep us together decisions that you hear about couples making and shake your head. We got pregnant and the fighting didn’t stop. We fought when the little stick turned blue. We fought at the first ultra scan. We fought over finding out the sex. We were fighting in the delivery room as our child took its first breath. We fought because he had my eyes. We fought.
Now, with the baby about to turn one he comes out with this.
“Quits?” I say with scorn, but already I know it’s too late. I’m tired, why fight any more? I just can’t do it.
We have to stop fighting. We have to name the baby sometime.
“Quits Quarrel, sure,” I concede, “Sounds like a superhero.”
“I knew you’d try and ruin it,” he screams.
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