Year One

Brooke sighed a long, weary sigh, bringing her shoulders down and pressing two fingers to her throbbing temples when the front door closed behind the departing guests with a heavy thud. Sterling probably threw his body weight against it again. That's what he got for not fixing it when she noticed it started to sag a few months ago.

It's fine, he said. It still closes. Isn't that the point?

Which was funny because she thought the whole point of a door was for it to actually work. He kept huffing and sighing and saying he'd fix it but, next thing she knew, he was stumbling through it with his ramrod of a shoulder and alcohol-guided legs.

He'd sag onto the doorknob, laughing in delayed mirth about how some "bodacious babe" threw a bra to him on stage and how "he still got it" and give Brooke that look. As if he wanted her to be the one in the crowds taking off her undergarments and throwing them at him for some cheap show of possession. Because the ring on his finger and the photo evidence of their flash-in-the-pan basement wedding that he insisted on meant nothing, apparently.

...Well, at least they'd have that in common.

He'd stumble and stagger into their room, shedding himself of his smoke-filled clothes along the way, waking James up like he always did. And he'd laugh and make faces at their little boy only to then flop onto the bed and be out within two breaths, smearing his grimy and sweaty body on her clean sheets and Brooke would be stuck trying to get him back down at two in the morning.

How was that fair?

"Mama?"

Brooke opened her eyes and turned towards James, not bothering to hide her sneer. It was mostly directed at her husband but James had a hand in it too. Uttering that word again.

He's advanced, the doctors said when she lugged him to another pediatric checkup. Most kids don't start speaking until around twelve months on average. He was seven months at that point. A little butterball who grabbed at everything and clung to her like he was fused to her skin.

Everyone was excited to know he was already speaking and that's all they could talk about. Repeating him like a deranged pack of parrots, clapping their hands and opening their faces in exaggerated and grotesque displays of wonder.

You should be so proud! they said. Proud of what? She had nothing to do with that.

She was proud she was able to drop the weight James bestowed upon her within four months of giving birth but no one complimented her on that. No one paid attention to that. No one said anything about how she managed to wrangle two children and keep her home immaculate when James got into everything and Sterling seemed allergic to keeping his clothes off the floor. (That part she didn't mind in the beginning, his body was as handsome as his face, but now it was just pathetic.)

And now it happened all over again. She spent how many hours on the phone just to plan the perfect party for James' first brithday? It was a big deal, apparently. And yet everyone was focused on him and didn't bother to compliment her on the color scheme she'd chosen, the food she had slaved over, the outfit she had perfectly planned, the toys she bought him (of which he promptly ignored and only played with the boxes. How ungrateful!)

Her aunt had tried to suggest getting James something silly like a smash cake but Brooke shut that down in an instant. James would be smashing nothing, thank you very much, and she didn't need his grubby, cake-y fingers all over her clothes, ruining her look that she spent three hours perfecting. It was her first big event after having James. She needed to look like she had it all together.

But James was the star of the show, as usual. His feet didn't touch the ground, he was passed along like a sack of potatoes from one relative to the next. (No, that wasn't a dig, he was getting to be a large and heavy boy. She'd be keeping an eye on that.) And they oohed and aahed and cooed over him wiggling in their arms, making noises of distress, and mumbling, "Mama, Mama" over and over again until she had to take him back.

And now, there he sat plonked on the floor, looking up at her with those big, beautiful hazel eyes that people couldn't stop gushing over, head tilted to the side as if sizing her up.

"Mama?" he repeated, stretching out his arms, lowering lip sticking out.

She sighed again. "What? What do you need now?"

His lip sucked back in. He lowered his arms, head turning this way and that. Then he leaned forward, latching his claw-like fingers on the coffee table he'd bumped his head against a few times too many—because he didn't listen when she told him to stay away from it—and grunted and groaned and lifted himself up onto wobbly legs.

Brooke stared, gaped, as James' brows furrowed and his body wiggled and he took a tentative step forward. Gasping, she surged forward, nearly collapsing out her chair, and placed a hand on James' shoulder. He looked up at her, face breaking into a beaming smile only for it to fade when she pressed down and sat him back onto his butt.

"Did he...?"

"Hmm?" Brooke turned her eyes over to Sterling who stood in the door frame. Leaning back on her heels, she casually brushed her hair out of her face. His eyes bounced back and forth between James and Brooke's faces

"Did James just walk?" Sterling's finger cut through the still air, almost as if he were accusing her of something. Which was very rude.

"Oh..." She wracked her brain, glancing at James. James stared back, hands bunched up in front of his mouth, lips wiggling as if trying to decide to smile or frown. "No," she said, voice light. "You must be seeing things. He's not ready for that." Sterling stared at her with that stupid look on his face and she waved him away, telling him he forgot to clean and sterilize the baby bottles. Again. Sterling mumbled something about getting around to it but it faded away to an annoying buzz since Brooke turned her focus back to James.

He can't be walking. Not yet. If he had tried that at the party? It'd be pandemonium and she might as well be the forgotten neighbor down the street. No. He wasn't walking. Not if she had anything to do with it. Leaning close until they were almost nose to nose, she said, "You just stay there a little bit longer." James giggled, grabbed her face, and smacked a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

She wiped it off.