Page 55 of The Christmas Eve Delivery

My jaw worked open and closed several times. I could not form words.

“I had no way of contacting him before, so I couldn’t have asked him for… what did they call it? Prenatal support? No. And when he got here, I didn’t have to ask for anything. He volunteered to clean up my aunt’s room. He volunteered to take me paint shopping. He wanted to pick out baby furniture.

“He said he was going to be here to help. I didn’t have to ask. This is ridiculous!” I ranted.

The first line in the letter that had me so mad stated that the party of the first part, James Miles Carlisle, would only provide prenatal support If I guaranteed repayment upon the completion of a negative paternal DNA test.

“Does this mean he wants me to pay him back for everything he’s already done? I don’t have the receipts. I have no idea how much money he spent on the paint for the baby’s room.”

I was really glad I couldn’t decide on any of the cribs we had looked at, and that they didn’t have things that I liked. They were all so ridiculously expensive.

I gasped, trying not to panic over what I would have done if I had allowed him to buy one of those twelve hundred dollar cribs that he had been so drawn to.

They were beautiful monstrosities of furniture. I couldn’t imagine spending that much money on a crib that would only be used for a couple of years, five tops, if we had another kid. But clearly, that wasn’t going to be happening now.

“That’s what it reads like to me,” Evie said.

“And this other part?” I shoved my finger at the paper. “Does that really say I can’t pursue child support or custodial arrangements?”

Evie picked up the letter and scanned over it again. “Okay, the first part of this definitely identifies your Miles as JM Carlisle.”

“Thanks for that,” I said with heavy sarcasm.

Ignoring me, she continued. “The second part says—it’s all in legalese— but the second part definitely says he wants you to pay him back if this isn’t his kid.”

I grabbed a notepad and a pen and started making a list of everything I could remember he bought while he was here last. I wrote down moving boxes, and because he cleaned out the room, labor. I put a question mark next to that. Was he going to expect me to pay him to work? He had bought at least one hundred dollars’ worth of paint. I had some crazy idea of painting the boring old dressers in a blend of bright hues. And I wanted to paint the walls blue like the sky and fill them with fluffy clouds. I wrote down two hundred for paint.

He had manned the desk for at least three hours on occasion while I napped and rested, so I wrote down another three hours times the hourly rate I was paying Mrs. Griffin to run the desk. I couldn’t think of anything else he had spent money on.

I pushed the list across the counter to Evie.

“As far as I know, that’s everything,” I said.

She looked at it. “Okay, so you’re only going to be out maybe three hundred. That’s not so bad. Keep track of anything he sends you.”

“I’m sending anything he sends me right back. There is no way I’m going to let this man have some kind of financial hold over me.”

“That’s going to be tricky,” Evie said. “From the sounds of it, this lawyer is going to countersue you for anything you try to claim against Miles.”

I let out a weary sigh. “If I want child support…”

“He’ll sue you for custody,” Evie answered.

“He can’t have the baby. I don’t want anything from him. Who does he think he is? Rumpelstiltskin or something? He’s not some fairy who did me a favor. I don’t need to repay him with my firstborn.”

“Then you won’t get child support,” Evie said.

“I don’t want child support,” I responded. “I don’t want anything from that man but for him to leave me alone.”

“This last part is ridiculous,” Evie said as she continued to read over the letter.

I leaned over the counter trying to see what she was reading.

“This part, they want you to sign this letter in acknowledgement and return it.”

“That’s bullshit.” I snatched the letter out of her hands and crumpled it up into a ball before aggressively throwing it at the trash can on the floor. I missed.

“Fuck you,” I yelled at the wadded up piece of paper before stomping on it with my foot and grinding it into the floor. I felt mildly better picturing Miles’s face wadded up in the paper under my foot. I bent over with a groan and picked the paper up before tossing it in the trash.

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