EIGHTEEN

"I am asking, who is the father of who's baby?"

I felt the coldness in her voice when Birdie asked. I averted my eyes back to my parents, who were looking at each other, thinking of a response without being suspicious.

"I came back because I left my glasses only to hear this interesting conversation," Birdie crossed her arms. "I would like to know who are you talking about?"

I swallowed hard. Sweat broke loose as I felt it slide from my head to my cheek. What should I do? What will my parents say? Will they lie? Will they tell the truth about the baby?

I'm not ready; we weren't prepared for this — my breath in rapid beats and shallow. I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples. It's a relief I'm sitting on the chair because my heels and legs are shaking. I'm afraid I'll trip. Birdie was waiting for any of us to answer her.

"Oh! Baby? Yes, we were talking about a friend," Dad burst out unexpectedly. Daddy looked at her with wide eyes.

"A friend?" Birdie arches a brow.

"Yes, a friend."