Maia was born in February, in the middle of the night, when Valentina was seventeen years old. At the time, she was staying with Mosiah, attempting to reconcile her relationship with her sister. He was woken in the middle of the night by Valentina, who stood at the side of the bed looking frantically unprepared. They were both unprepared, that night. She spoke in Spanish, pacing the small bedroom and rubbing her stomach. “Uh, either I just pissed myself, or we need to go to the hospital.”
She didn’t have a midwife - though Mosiah had accompanied her to prenatal classes during her pregnancy. Scurrying out of bed, he’d quickly gathered a hospital bag, sleepy and slightly nervous. It wasn’t fair for a man to be nervous, unless he was the one giving birth. Valentina was a powerful woman, and she knew it.
According to Valentina, around six percent of expectant mothers experienced prolonged labour. Mosiah wasn’t sure where she’d gotten her information, or the accuracy of it, but he knew better than to argue. During Maia’s birth, after Valentina had been in labour for nearly a full day, she was taken to the operating room for a Caesarean section. It was frightening for Valentina, of course, but it was frightening for Mosiah as well.
The ultrasound tech, who was friendly, pointed to the screen. “Look, Maia, that’s your little sister or brother!” Valentina was eight weeks pregnant, and almost always nauseous. With Maia, she’d rarely been nauseous at all. “Are you excited to be a big sister?” Maia was small for her age, though no one was all too worried about it. She was in a troublemaking phase: throwing tantrums and insisting she do things herself. She climbed her father as though he were a jungle gym, sitting atop his shoulders to watch the ultrasound.
Years ago, when Mosiah and Hannah were about ten and eight years old, they played together in the backyard hammock. It was Sunday, probably; Mosiah remembered they’d done Bible study that day. Swinging wildly back and forth atop the hammock, he looked seriously at Hannah. “Did you know that God isn’t actually real?”
She was always serious about Bible study. Hannah’s room, last time he saw it, was filled with rosaries, cross necklaces, and religious statues. As a child, she was bossy and proper - though this hadn’t much changed. “Says who?”
He jumped from a tall post, nearly landing on Hannah, who swatted at him. “Jeremiah.”
Hannah thought she knew everything. Maybe, pretending to be superior could make you forget you were insecure. “He’s stupid.” Hannah thought this, probably. Salem bullied her mercilessly when she was a kid, and she never quite forgave him. “And you shouldn’t say that, you know. You’re going to get in trouble.”
As a child, Mosiah was, briefly, afraid of getting in trouble. Most kids are afraid of this, he assumed. Sometime in elementary school, his mother had scrubbed his mouth with soap for taking the name of the Lord in vain. Sometime in middle school, he stopped caring about upsetting people.
“I’m tired,” said Valentina, on their way out of the clinic. Even nauseous and bloated, she dressed to impress. If you’d told Mosiah even five years ago that he’d marry the world’s sexiest woman, he’d have probably told you to fuck off. Their first month of working together, they’d gotten in trouble for making out in the staff room while on the clock. All the boys at work seemed jealous of him after this, and they’d do whatever he wanted.
Buckling Maia into her carseat, Mosiah checked the time. “Lie down for a bit when we get home. I’ll take Maia to the park and make dinner.”
He was eighteen when they got engaged, and they’d known each other less than a year. Ask anybody, and they’d say it was a stupid decision, bound to end in divorce and crippling debt - but Valentina was that wife who disgusted bystanders every time she clung off of her husband in public. On the day of their engagement, Mosiah’s mother-in-law scolded her daughter very loudly over the phone. On the day of their elopement, Paloma insisted he liked Valentina for her body, not her brains, and that he’d be tired of her within the year.
Maia whimpered: a hungry whimper; Mosiah had learned to decipher by now. Starting his boxy red truck, he tossed a container of Cheerios into the back seat.
It was amusing, truthfully, the reactions of strangers to Mosiah’s outfit choices. There were days he purposely outdid himself to get under the skin of strangers. Most of the time, children were afraid of him, and parents steered away as if Satanism was catching. He’d learned how to do makeup by helping Valentina with tutorials, and by experimenting. Sometimes, people were more angry about the makeup itself.
“Excuse me,” said a middle-aged woman, on the path to the park. “Is this your daughter?”
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These days, people still didn’t understand biracial kids. Children and adults were confused by Mosiah’s relationship to Maia: he had to have been brother, or babysitter. It seemed to make no sense to the stupid, how a brown girl could belong to a white boy.
Maia’s hands were sticky. “Who’s asking?”
Aren’t you a little young to have a kid? You’re, like, seventeen.
Aren’t you a little old to judge complete strangers? You’re, like, fifty.
Growing up, Orion had insisted his children learn to respect their elders. The funny thing was that being old didn’t entitle a person to respect. Mosiah had been punished time and time again for speaking back, after being spoken to badly, or retorting back after being insulted. But he was a child, and a child’s job was to do as they were told. Some people would sit back and let others take advantage of them. Mosiah was not one of these people.
“Go play, Maia.”
She was a friendly little girl, but hadn’t quite learned how to share with other kids. Sometimes, she wasn’t obligated to. Squealing, she clapped her sticky hands together, running on her chubby legs toward the small playground.
It was snowy, chilly. Valentina, who hated the cold, often refused to leave the house in the winter unless she had no choice.
Every night, Maia’s routine was the same. Valentina insisted it was good for a child to have a routine, that it would help them sleep better. After helping her father make dinner, she ate, and then bathed, and then practiced using the potty before storytime. The house was usually calm - a stark contrast to Mosiah’s childhood home - and kind, a stark contrast to Valentina’s.
On the wall in Mosiah’s bedroom, there was a hanging print which contained the eleven Satanic rules. It was something people were afraid of without knowing much about, without being willing to gather knowledge. It was a shame, really, that the stupid had no problem being stupid - and no knowledge of being this way. Mosiah would rather have been deaf than stupid.
When Valentina finished in the shower, she returned to the bedroom in only a fuzzy towel, hardly long enough to touch her thighs. Watching her rummage through a dresser, Mosiah laid back on the bed. “Jesus, my wife’s the world’s hottest woman.”
She grinned, falling onto the sheets next to him. “Keep it up and you might just get a handjob.” She was good at these, though hadn’t always been.
“I’m serious.” Life really had changed, despite doubting at one point that it ever would. He wasn’t an insecure man - but something about him had impressed Valentina. “You’re a freaking goddess, and I’m just a lowly boy who bows down in your presence.” Keep your hands to yourself, Lillian would say. Valentina preferred when he didn’t.
Rolling over, Valentina let her towel fall. Six months ago, she’d pierced her nipples: and claimed it made things better in the bedroom. Water dripping from her hair, she crawled on top of Mosiah. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, you know that?” She always dirty talked in Spanish, and he couldn’t complain. “Take your pants off, papi.”
Not a single man would argue with Valentina. She’d spent her life making boys sweat, and enjoyed doing it. Perhaps, as a girl constantly sexualized by the men around her, she’d learned to just go along with it.
“Anything for you, my queen.”
Bro, when did you become such a simp? Six months ago, you hated this bitch.
Hey, I’d rather be a simp than a virgin.
She was good at giving head. When they first began dating, she had no idea what to do.
Many of Valentina’s friends or followers had demanded to know what she saw in Mosiah. Many had messaged him to poke fun at his clothing, or makeup, or skin. He’d never given a shit. Jealousy wasn’t a pretty look on anybody.
She blew him quickly and deeply, making him weak in the knees. Her tits were warm and already looking plumper. “You’re a good girl, Valentina.”
She wasn’t opposed to being watched. Actually, she seemed to get off on it. Sometimes, she set up her camera to record herself getting fucked or sucking cock, to post online or to watch back later. Mosiah, of course, had no problem with this. They were hot, and it was exciting to know that others got off on them.
In bed, Maia grumbled awake. Valentina sighed, getting up to tend to her.
“Valentina, will you marry me?”
It was a sunny day, and Maia was six months old. Though Valentina had mentioned, in the past, her desire to someday get married, they’d never spoken of it. Mosiah wasn’t worried. She’d accepted instantly, jumping off the ground onto him. After getting engaged, Salem was the first person Mosiah told. After hearing the news of Mosiah’s plan to get married, he just paused for a long while before saying, “Why would you do that?” He was staying with Salem when he made the plan to move to the prairies. For a seventeen-year-old, the prospect of moving all alone to a new province was intimidating - but Mosiah needed a fresh start. It was a four hour flight from Prince Edward Island, and he had no plans to ever return.
Hannah was calling from her home phone. When someone from the farm called Mosiah, it was always Hannah. If it was important, she’d leave a voicemail.
Returning from the toddler’s room, Valentina shut the door. “Where were we?” It was warm in the house. Pulling her damp hair back into a ponytail, Valentina continued where she’d left off.
He had a voicemail from Hannah. Like everything she said, it was straight-forward and to the point. “Mosiah, pick up your phone! Dad's dead!"