This is so embarrassing, I silently whine.
Looking at the newest shame in my seemingly cursed existence, the tiny person swaddled in dainty white lace – so much lace that her face is hardly visible.
“Can you please look this way, Mrs?” asks the photographer.
Before I can correct him, my mother’s harsh voice swiftly says, “It is Miss, Mr. Marchand.”
A warmth spreads over my checks as the photographer looks over with raised brows, staring for a long second before going back to adjusting his bulky picture-taker.
“Oh, don’t go biting his head off, Marie,” Pa tells her. “It is not his fault our Mary-Ann turned out how she did.”
Mother huffs, not caring for Pa defending me – if you could call it that – but she does as he says, and drops the topic, for now.
Of course, Uncle Remy is the smart one; he stays out of it by sitting patiently in his chair off to my right, with his straw hat tilted just a bit up so his face can be seen in the picture.
Looking over to Sunny just giggling happily away in Ma’s lap, I feel no happiness. There is no maternal warmth or pride because, honestly, she is not that cute of a baby. Only cold resentment fills my eyes as I stare down at her.
“Alright, everyone look this way, please,” instructs Mr. Marchand, with his head poking out from the black cloth attached to the camera.
I turn my cold eyes towards the camera. The blinding flash makes my eyes water a bit, and the high-pitched outburst to my left rings painfully in my ears.
“Oh, no, Sunny,” coos Ma as she picks the wailing girl up under her tiny arms and raises her to face level. “It was just the picture, little girl. Nothing to go crying over.”
Watching Ma play with Sunny as though she was her child and not me, feels like a knife made from dry ice slicing through my heart. Ever since Ma discovered I was pregnant, she has been cold towards me. Pa talks to me, but it is a tense dialogue; his lips are taunt, and gravity seems especially strong to the skin on his forehead; it naturally burrows down further and further the longer he speaks with me.
I feel a nudge on my shoulder. Looking back, Uncle Remy is standing, looking down at me with his blank expression. He tilts his head lazily to the right out towards the lake, an invitation to join him for a walk. I nod rapidly, not wanting to stay here only to watch my parents coddle the very reason for the whispers behind our backs in public.
Not being able to creep away, even if I tried, I rise from my creaky wooden chair. Ma and Pa pay Uncle Remy and me no mind as we step down the sun-bleached, weatherworn, wooden steps, and amble our way towards the beautiful, clear water of lake.
Stumbling slightly as my short heels sink unevenly in the sand-dirt shore surrounding the water, I totter a bit before Uncle Remy offers his hand nonchalantly, which I gratefully accept.
Leaning down, I pull my church shoes off, one-by-one, whilst muttering bitterly, “Damned things, Ma will skin me if I ruin these.”
“You best watch your language, Ann,” warns Uncle, an amused gleam in his cobalt eyes, “You’re not too big to have your mouth washed. And don’t think your ma won’t because she would.”
Drawing a deep breath in and puffing my cheeks out – a habit I picked up from little Mark down the street as child – I turn to gaze over the lightly rippling water with obstinance deepening my pallid cerulean eyes.
“How long you gonna stay mad at ya’ ma?”
“How long is she gonna treat that child better than her own?” I viciously demand.
“That is her granddaughter, Ann,” Uncle Remy laughs, “She is supposed to spoil her.”
“That is not what I mean, and you know it!” I angrily snapped as I jerk my small hand from his large one.
Stalking away from my shadowing Uncle, the burning sensation of sinus pressure building behind my eyes, I snarl shrilly in frustration.
“Hey, now, Ann…” his low words trail off.
Uncle’s warm hands cup my shoulders, pulling me back while turning me around, and trapping me in a tight embrace. His arms crossed across my upper back and his chin resting on my head, I resist for a second but he coils tighter around me and I melt into his overall-covered chest.
“It isn’t fair,” I tell him, my voice cracking as I speak. “Travis said we’d be together forever. I trusted him. Now I am stuck raising his bastard child while he and Gertrude are marrying in a month.”
“I know, Ann,” Uncle’s hand rubs my arm, comforting me, “But you can’t go blaming Marie and Billy for being mad, though. We all warned you to be careful ‘round that boy.”
I sniffle loudly.
“Yeah, y’all did,” I grudgingly concede.
“Well, alrighty then,” breathes Uncle, putting a foot of distance between us and looking into my eyes, “How about I talk to Billy, and then he and I talk to Marie? Will that help?”
Nodding mutely, I wipe my musty eyes quickly.
“Alright, but you got to try to talk to your ma, too, ya know,” he informs me. “If you don’t, then ain’t nothing gonna get better.”
“But-”
“Ah-ah,” he interrupts, “No ‘but’ little missy, unless you are askin’ for yours to get swatted.”
“Naw, sir,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“Good,” he smiles, tucking a piece of fallen hair back into my hat. “Now no more tears – and no more avoiding ya’ ma – ain’t no niece of mine needs be crying when I ‘round.”
A small laugh bubbles up to the surface, and the smallest smile sprouts with it.
“There’s that beautiful smile,” comments Uncle with a gentleness in his voice.
Letting his hands fall from my shoulders, I follow him to the pebble path providing passage through the tall lush grass. As we approach the porch, I see Mr. Marchand packing up his equipment into his large steam trunk case that rests on the edge of the porch directly above a metal dolly. Pa is helping Mr. Marchand by observing his progress in packing, and Ma is nowhere to be seen. 
“Billy,” calls Uncle, “Where’s Marie?”
Pa nods towards the house. “She went to put Sunny down for her nap,” he tells us in his gruff voice.
I turn towards Uncle, mouth ajar, unsure what to say. But that does not matter because Uncle simple jerks his head towards the house.
“Alright,” I whisper before dashing off.
Rushing through the small path leading to the house that branches off the path to the lake, I take the steps up the house two at a time. Bursting through the screen door, I flinch as it slams closed.
“Wahhhhhh!” cries Sunny from upstairs.
“Sweet Lord Jesus!” shouts Ma.
She comes out the sitting room with hell’s fire in her eyes. “Have you lost your mind, girl?” she angrily demands.
“No, ma’am,” I frantically back peddle, my back hitting the screen door. “I just- I just…”
“You what?” growls Ma.
She corners me between the door, glaring at me with seething rage.
“I came to try and make up, Ma,” I weakly tell her, tears welling in my eyes, “I want to be your baby girl again, and have us laugh together again.”
Ma stares at me for a hard minute, before straightening and stepping a foot back, with a cold look, she seals my hopes, “My baby girl is named Sunny.”
My mother turning and going to care for my still wailing child, goes unnoticed by me. It feels as though the world has been yanked from my feet, and unable to hold myself up, I slide down the length of the screen door.
I numbly feel tears streaming down my face.
I grew up hearing stories from the mothers of friends about how wonderful childbirth is, but I now know it to be a lie. Childbirth is painful and long, and in no way as rewarding as they portrayed it to be.
I realize as I sit there on the cold floor of the hall that Ma paid good money to have that family photo taken. She paid fifty dollars if I heard right.
Starting as a quiet chuckle, it progresses into a loud, mad cackling as it occurs to me: she paid fifty dollars for a picture with her husband, brother, “baby girl,” and some disowned wretch.
Ah, what a family tale this will be.