Raising Riven

Declan

Hayden
So he′s at the hospital?
9:17 PM

Declan
yeah. docs said he′ll be fine. 👌🏻
9:18 PM

Hayden
Did they say anything else?
9:18 PM

Declan
God, I′m so worried. Can I call you?
9:19 PM

Hayden
On the metro. Bad cell service. 🤷🏻‍♂️
9:20 PM

Declan
Fine, but keep me updated.
9:20 PM

Declan tossed his phone carelessly onto the couch, cooing reassuringly as he rocked the baby in his arms. ″It′s alright, baby,″ he whispered to the bundle of blankets. ″You′re safe.″

Steam screeched out the kettle he′d set to boil. Fumbling between the blankets and the baby he′d kidnapped, he laid the infant on his couch, hands hovering over him for a moment as his eyes flitted across all neighbouring, potentially harmful and digestible objects.

Muttering, ″Stay right here, sweetheart″, more for himself than the baby, he raced into the kitchen, took the boiling kettle off the range and returned to the baby′s side. Fortunately, the infant had done nothing except wet the couch.

″That′s fine, baby. Da—″ He caught himself. I′m not his daddy, he thought to himself, beratingly. ″I′ll get you something else to wear, darling.″

Lifting the tiny, crying infant onto his kitchen counter, Declan tugged at a roll of serviettes and tore a handful. Cleaning the baby′s bum, the little child seemed to calm. Kicking was replaced by sucking his thumb, cries for gentle sniffles and the occasional hiccup.

A soft smile curled Declan′s lips. He felt his chest swell. He couldn′t remember if this was how it felt to be happy. All the same, he knew his dreams would soon be crushed. If Hayden found out that he hadn′t taken the baby to the hospital, he′d flip.

Declan′s best hope was keeping the infant till the following morning, by which time he would be able to bathe, feed and change the little bundle of joy. He′d have to say goodbye eventually because if living in a rented flat, being able to count the pennies in his bank account and struggling to settle his debt with the landlord meant anything, it was that this baby could never be his.

Even if the court, by some miracle, granted him permission to adopt the beautiful child whose tiny arms reached for an empty bottle of ketchup on the kitchen counter, Declan refused to raise a child on beanies and weenies, frozen peas and tattered hand-me-downs.

″You deserve the whole world,″ he whispered to the innocent child, voice cracked as tears began to sting the cuts he′d endured from clambering under the bridge. He fought to compose himself, chewing his lower lip as he pondered a solution to the baby′s stark nudity.

As his temporary treasure knocked over the bottle of ketchup, Declan had an epiphany. He shifted the child onto his bed, retrieving a white tee from the drawer in which he kept all his clothes. He grabbed scissors from the kitchen and began to cut it, away from the baby, into a shape that loosely resembled a diaper.

″Now,″ he said aloud, to which the child giggled. God forbid he should develop Stockholm Syndrome. ″Let′s get you changed.″