Barnaby gazed at his mother as if she'd completely snapped. His brow furrowed, bewilderment dancing across his features like he questioned whether he'd heard her right.
"Mom... what are you saying?" he questioned slowly, his tone thick with incredulity.
Louise Jenkin settled back into her chair, fingers clasped atop her desk. Her son's tone didn't shake her in the slightest. Instead, she met his gaze directly and spoke with the sort of composure that only deepened his anxiety, "She's got a child, Barnaby. A three-year-old."
The statement hit him hard. His eyes went wide as he echoed her words, as if voicing them might bring clarity.
"Davina has a child?"
His mother gave a single nod, her face composed, perhaps too composed. "Yes."
Barnaby blinked rapidly, then let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head.
The notion felt completely wrong, yet he couldn't ignore the conviction in his mother's voice. Still, part of him wanted to fight it, to dismiss it entirely.
