Abby winced and doubled over in pain. “Your poor mother, Carlos. Your poor, poor mother.”
Carlos rubbed something soothing on Abby’s neck, knowing better than to go near Abby’s seven month swollen belly. Last time he’d done that, she’d taken a swing at him with the closest thing she could get her hands on. Last time, it had been a wooden cutting board. The bruises hadn’t faded quite yet. “My poor mother? What about poor you?”
“I knew what I was getting into. I had plenty of warning about this nonsense. Your poor mother didn’t have a clue.” Abby groaned.
That was true. Carlos’s father hadn’t told his mother about the whole “not technically being human” and the “carrying a psychic baby has complications” thing. He’d just used the psychic ability to get her into bed easily and left her after learning she was pregnant to fend for herself. That meant when she hit about six months pregnant and the foreign hormone started developing in Carlos, and started coursing through her own blood—well, it had come as a shock to his mom’s system. Carlos never could have done that to Abby—but then again, his father was kind of an asshole.
“Your father wasn’t an intentional asshole,” Abby relaxed as the pain eased, laying back along the couch and resting her head softly in Carlos’ lap, “He just lived a very specific life and no one ever said no to him. A product of his environment is all. He’d changed before he died.” As her body processed the chemicals her son produced, Abby would spend the next few hours knowing more than she should—about many things. Then it would be nothing for a day, maybe two, until the pain came back.
But, of course, as long as Abby was carrying Carlos’ baby, she was going to be able to read his mind. But then again, she wasn’t entirely sure that Abby couldn’t read his mind under any circumstance since the day they met. It was the blessing, and the curse, of having a psychic’s psychic child.