I attended every baby appointment with Hayden. The more time we spent talking about this little guy, the more connected to him I felt, and I was right, it was a him.
We'd argued continuously about names. I fought vehemently against the snobby names she wanted to hang on this child: Alcot, Rigby, Woodrow-we were not doing that to this little boy. I shunned the idea of penny loafers and polo shirts. Barf. I refused to buy into the notion that my vote didn't count just because he didn't have my DNA. If Tad didn't want to be involved, then I was taking over as a surrogate.
To date, Hayden still hadn't told his family, and I doubted she would. She was hell-bent and determined to do this her way, and it didn't include handouts. When people asked her about the father, she found a way to dodge
