I feel my cheeks color. “We can’t just keep calling the poor little thing ‘he’ and ‘it,’ so I named him after Da.” Dee’s face contracts into such a scowl that I feel some of my bravado evaporating. It probably wasn’t the best idea considering Dee’s feelings for our father but since I never got to name a son for him, it felt like the least I could do.

“You’ve honestly named a black child Angus?” She shakes her head like it’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard.

“What’s wrong with it? I know you had issues with Da but—”

“That’s beside the point. Has it not occurred to you that this child has his own culture? His own people and a whole history that has nothing to do with us? You should have given some consideration to that, or at least tried to respect it, by naming him something more appropriate.”

“How the hell am I supposed to know what culture he’s from?”

“He’s damn well not descended from a redheaded Scottish drunkard, I can tell you that much!” She shakes her head and crosses her arms. “You know, I really don’t understand you at all.”

“Well, of course you don’t, but what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Your infatuation with this baby doesn’t make any sense. You know he’s black, right?”

“I have eyes, Dee. I’m not blind.”

“Well, you’ve never been color-blind, that’s for sure.”

“You’re calling me racist?”

“If the shoe fits . . .” Before I can reply in my defense, she adds, “We either go and voluntarily hand him over today or they’ll come here and get him. You decide.”

Her words strike a chord and I retaliate without thinking. “Just because you gave your baby up doesn’t mean you can force me to give up mine.”

Dee’s face drains of all color. “This is not your baby, Ruth. You might do well to try and remember that.” With that, she turns and leaves.

•   •   •

The meeting with social services is at an orphanage half an hour away. We don’t have a car seat for a newborn and so Dee is buckled up into the backseat holding Angus while I drive. I’ve put the roof up to protect him from the wind, but the window of the passenger seat is open and Jezebel has her head hanging out.

The directions lead us to a large face-brick building hunkered down in the surrounding earth, as squat as a mound of cow shit and just as offensive. A forlorn playground takes up most of the outside space, which would traditionally be called a garden, though a garden by its very nature implies the presence of grass and trees, neither of which I can see anywhere on the property. It’s called the New Beginnings Baby Sanctuary.