Morygn & William’s House
“What are you doing?” William cried as he walked into the kitchen carrying their son.
Morgyn continued mixing the formula, “Planning to torture our child, naturally.”
“Torture? What do you mean? They’re already crying, and you intend to do worse?”
“For fucks sake William, babies cry. Our baby is crying because it’s incapable of polite conversation when hungry.”
“Our babe is not an ‘it,’” he hissed.
“I know our baby is not an ‘it,” Morgyn clenched their fists, “Have you chosen a name? Any will do. I sent you three pages of options. Do you need more?”
William gave them his usual haunted look at the topic of names. At first, Morgyn had no problem waiting until the baby was born. Even Sulis, whose list of requirements for the nursery was a mile long, was agnostic about choosing right away. But it had been months, and William fought them on every suggestion.
“William Jr, Terrance, Amos, Coop, Kwame, Garreth—any name William, please!” they threw up their hands, “Your mother sent a baby gift addressed ‘TBN’—to be named!”
“Don’t try to change the subject! The baby doesn’t need a name right now; he needs food. I thought Sulis said she would consider pumping again. Neither of you seems concerned he could get a stomach ache.”
This was the new William. Irritable and anxious, taking Morgyn and Sulis to task over everything they did, judging it as insufficient, dangerous, or damaging. There was no rhyme or reason to it.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and relax?” Morgyn suggested. “You’ve been with the baby all day; you could use a break. I’ll feed him and put him down for the night, and then I’ll join you. Formula won’t upset his stomach, I promise.”
The look in William’s eyes was pure panic. “I…I’m fine, you go ahead. I want to check the crib anyway. It doesn’t seem sturdy.”