You know the old saying about how you can’t go back home again? Well, you certainly can’t go back home again covered in cow s**t and stained with afterbirth. As soon as I’d dragged my wounded pride back to my car, I’d called Becca. Thankfully, she hadn’t left for the funeral home yet. Since I figured it would be easier to explain what happened in person, I kept my story short.
Becca lived two streets over from Papa’s practice. When I pulled into the driveway, I found her husband’s police cruiser in the driveway. Unlike me, Becca’s high school sweetheart, Anthony, had shown up on their wedding day, and they were going on two years of wedded bliss.
With my roller board trailing behind me, I limped up the front walk. When I got to the steps, Becca came out on the porch. “Oh my God! What hap
