Hunny

Chapter 9- The Child Between Them

Hunny avoided Elizabeth’s house for weeks.

She didn’t say it out loud—Hunny never admitted avoidance—but she found reasons to stay away. Laundry. Errands. Lisbeth’s nap schedule. The heat. The humidity. The alignment of the planets. Anything to keep her from stepping back into the house where her mother had blindsided her with a baby boy who looked like betrayal wrapped in a blanket.

And beneath all that? A deeper fury.

How could she dare?

How could Elizabeth bring another child into that house, with a drunkard of a husband who had bruised every child he’d ever raised? How could she gamble another innocent life on the hope that this time would be different?

All Hunny could think was: How dare she? How dare she do this again?

But this little Arkansas community was small, and the family was smaller.

The reunion came sooner than she wanted.

It happened on a Sunday afternoon, the kind of day where the air felt thick enough to chew. The Preacher had invited them to a church potluck—“just a little gathering,” he’d said, which Hunny knew meant half the county would be there. E.C. wanted to go. Lisbeth needed to be seen. And Hunny? Hunny needed to prove she wasn’t hiding.

She dressed Lisbeth in her best dress, tied her curls with a ribbon, and walked into the fellowship hall like she owned the place.

She was halfway through accepting compliments about Lisbeth’s dimples when she saw Elizabeth walk in.

And in her arms—Charles.

Elizabeth froze when she spotted Hunny. Her breath caught, her shoulders tightened, and for a moment she looked like she might turn around and leave. But she didn’t. She shifted Charles on her hip and walked forward, slow and careful, like approaching a wild animal.

Hunny stiffened. Lisbeth clung to her leg.

“Hello, Hunny,” Elizabeth said softly.

Hunny didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on the baby.

Charles seemed much bigger now, cheeks rounder, eyes bright and curious. He reached toward the ceiling with a fistful of air, babbling nonsense that made the older church ladies melt.

Elizabeth’s heart squeezed. She wanted Hunny to see him—not as a rival, not as a threat, but as her brother. Her son. Her unexpected blessing. She wanted Hunny to soften, to smile, to say something kind.

But Hunny’s face was stone.

Elizabeth swallowed. “He’s growing fast.”

“Babies do that,” Hunny said, her voice flat as a skillet.

Elizabeth tried again. “Would you… Would you like to hold him?”

The audacity.

The sheer, blinding audacity.

Hunny’s laugh was short and cold. “No. I’ve got my own.”

She lifted Lisbeth into her arms, as if to prove it. Lisbeth wrapped her arms around Hunny’s neck, thumb in her mouth, eyes wide and watchful.

Elizabeth’s face fell—just a flicker, but enough. She looked down at Charles, then back at Hunny, and something inside her cracked. She had expected anger. She had expected sharp words. But she hadn’t expected this: the rejection of her son. The rejection of her attempt to bridge the gap. The rejection of her hope that maybe—just maybe—motherhood could bring them closer.

Elizabeth blinked hard, trying to keep her voice steady. “He’s a good baby,” she whispered.

“Good for you,” Hunny replied sarcastically.

The words hit Elizabeth like a slap. She felt heat rise in her cheeks, shame mixing with hurt. She had spent weeks imagining this moment—imagining Hunny smiling, imagining Lisbeth reaching out to touch her baby uncle’s hand, imagining a family that could be stitched back together.

Instead, Hunny had ripped the seam wider.

And beneath Elizabeth’s hurt was something darker: fear.

Fear that she had made a terrible mistake.

Fear that she had brought another child into a house where love was fragile, and danger was familiar.

Fear that Hunny—her firstborn, her firebrand—might be right.

E.C. approached then, sensing the tension like a shift in barometric pressure. He greeted Elizabeth gently, his voice soft, his eyes kind. He looked at Charles with something like tenderness—something Hunny didn’t want to see.

Elizabeth offered Charles to him.

And E.C., being E.C., took the baby.

Hunny’s stomach dropped.

Charles settled into E.C.’s arms as if he belonged there. E.C. smiled—small, warm, the smile he reserved for fragile things.

Elizabeth watched them, her heart aching. She had hoped Hunny would be the one to reach out first. She had hoped her daughter would see Charles as family. Instead, it was E.C.—quiet, steady E.C.—who held her son with gentleness.

It hurt more than she expected.

She tried to hide it, but the pain leaked through her voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered to Hunny.

“You didn’t,” Hunny lied. “I just don’t like surprises.”

Elizabeth nodded, though they both knew it wasn’t the truth.

The Preacher called everyone to pray, and the room shifted into a hush. E.C. handed Charles back to Elizabeth, but the damage was done. Hunny stood stiff beside him, her hand gripping his shoulder like an anchor.

As the prayer droned on, Elizabeth stared at her daughter—her first child, her difficult child, her firebrand—and felt a grief she couldn’t name. She had hoped Charles would heal something between them. Instead, he had become another wound.

When the prayer ended, Hunny leaned down and kissed Lisbeth’s forehead. “You’re the star, baby girl,” she whispered. “Don’t you ever forget it.”

Elizabeth heard it.

And it broke her.

Everything with her firstborn was a competition. Hunny had to outshine, outsmart, outdo everyone around her. Of course, her child had to be the prettiest, the smartest, the envy of all the other parents. Elizabeth had spent years trying to understand it, trying to love around it, trying to soften it.

But now she saw it clearly: Hunny wasn’t going to share the stage. Not with her. Not with Charles. Not with anyone.

Elizabeth held him tighter, her heart heavy.

She had gained a son.

But had she lost her daughter in the process?

Charles was most definitely not planned. Hunny would find out later that just as cancer was beginning to attack her mother’s ovaries, a miracle named Charles was born. No one knew at the time that Elizabeth would not live to see him grow up, or that Charles would not live long enough to see his own dreams fulfilled.

Even if Hunny could have seen the future, she would not have controlled her anger in the face of it. She never apologized for her feelings or for her behavior. That was for others to worry about. If her mother was hurt, that was her problem; Hunny never owed her or anyone else, for that matter, an apology, ever.

And Hunny, with her chin lifted and her pride blazing, made a silent vow:

She would not let that boy—her mother’s boy—or anyone else dim her or her daughter’s light.

Not now.

Not ever.