Page 2 of Juliet's Echo

Fuck was he so nervous for? He already had three kids.

I could only assume the gladiator that is Axel was brought to his knees because, once again, he was reminded that your children—no matter their age or choices—would always be your responsibility.

My two brothers rushed into the room, both hitting me in passing and bringing me back to reality. They charged to my mother’s bedside so forcefully that the baby resting on her chest jumped and began to cry. The sound of something so small yet so distraught instantly brought out the annoyance I now had for my brothers.

“Aye, Thing One and Two, calm down. Don’t have all that ruckus around her,” I spat.

“We ain’t even do nothing,” Mylo sucked his teeth.

It seemed like the baby cried even louder, and it made my skin crawl. Why the hell was she so loud? Like the type of loud where you can’t hear yourself with headphones on.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, love,” my mother soothed. “That’s just your Zion and your Mylo. You’ll get used to them soon.”

My mother lifted her head and looked at me. Her eyes were worried when they met mine, and I knew that she knew I was in my head. Nervous wasn’t enough to explain how I felt. How was it possible to feel like a failure at a mission you haven’t even started? My legs were weak yet held strong in the position I was currently in. If I moved, I’d pass out. If I spoke, I’d throw up. Pretty sure sweat was taking over my forehead, and the diamond Cuban-link chain around my neck felt as though it was cutting off my air supply.

“Echo,” she said softly. “Come here, baby.”

I heard her, but still couldn’t move.

“Echo, are you the predator or the prey?” my father’s deep voice commanded. That question is what he would say to the Lions when defeat rested in their eyes during the fourth quarter of a game. Surprisingly, the shit worked seventy-five percent of the time—and this time proved no different.

“Predator,” I responded sternly, making sure to give my father direct eye contact.

“Then own the game, son,” he replied.

Slowly, I made my way to where my mother and this little liability, who was now settled, rested. My eyes surveyed from the full, bone-straight jet-black hair on her head to the crouched stubbiness of her fat toes. She was small and fat at the same time. Her skin was pale with a few red blotches, her eyes tightly closed. I gave her some grace at first because the birthing experience had to be hard on her little body—and she smelled amazing. There were no words to describe her smell, but if Heaven had a scent, I’m pretty sure it was her.

I lifted her small, tightly closed fist with my index finger, and she parted her small, heart-shaped lips and opened her eyes almost instantaneously. Shit scared the fuck out of me.

“Why the hell does she look like that?” I questioned.

Apparently, my curiosity broke the uneasiness in the room, and laughter erupted from everyone. Laughter—free, careless, almost forgetful. In that moment, it felt priceless. A rare thing. Because today had stripped me of damn near everything that felt happy. Pain had wrapped itself around my bones in a way I had never known before. And this baby girl—this new season of life—had been born right in the middle of it. Innocent as she was, she entered this world through blood, grief, and secrets, carrying sins that were never hers to bear.

“Look like what?” my mother asked, laughing.

“She's ugly as hell,” I responded.

“She is not,” my mother shot back playfully, still laughing. “She looks like a chubby baby bear.”

“Exactly. Ugly as hell,” I replied. “Fuck happened to her on her way to Earth? She looks like an old man mixed with an elf. And is she fucking cross-eyed?”

“Aight, little nigga, that’s enough,” my father scowled, still laughing his damn self.

“Yeah, stop talking about her like that,” my mother said in a baby voice. She lifted little Miss Ugly and placed rapid kisses on her neck. Little E.T. must have liked that shit because she smiled.

“Eww, Ma, don’t make her smile. Shit looks worse than her normal face,” I complained.

“I’m going to inform her how you talked about her when she gets older,” my father said, pointing his index finger at me.

“Yeah,” Zion butted in. “I’m going to be her favorite anyway.”

I sucked my teeth. If it was one thing Zion Everette wasn’t, it was somebody’s favorite. He whined more than a cat in heat and couldn’t follow a two-step command if he had a YouTube video on how to complete the mission in front of him.

“Echo, wash your hands and get a receiving blanket so you can hold her,” my mother said.

“I don’t want to hold her funny-looking—”

My father cleared his throat, cutting off my statement. He gave me the look as if I had seconds to do what my mother asked, or it was my ass. That was one thing about Axel—whatever the Queen said, you better make haste.