“I know it,” I grunted, stiffening when Millie finally put the bundle of baby boy into my arms. “I don’t know what the fuck to do with him.”

“Just sit there and look at him. Say he’s cute or something like that. Compliment him. You can pretend he actually knows what you’re saying, that’s what we do,” Igor suggested. “And don’t curse, he won’t know what a curse word is now, but we’re trying to set a precedent in our home that we’d like you to comply with.”

Clearing my throat, I peered down at the little alien in my arms. Paul’s cheeks took up more than half his head and he had a smattering of blond hair on his dome. I could not relate to him in the least. Though I knew where babies came from, it was unbelievable that the one I was holding came from my brother.

As I looked at my nephew’s peaceful face, I didn’t think about what most people probably would while watching a baby sleep. I wasn’t entranced by how sweet he was or how good he smelled, how cute or how small. The only thing I could focus on was the sorrow I felt for him that eclipsed it all. His parents had selfishly brought him into a world full of hatred and pain. His future would be full of heartbreak, loss, frustration, and disapproval and that was only the start. Maybe if he was really unlucky, Paul would grow to be like me. He’d live his life afraid to be who he was, allowing people’s opinions to shape his opinion of himself. I’d always believed some humans were born bad, like the “gorilla man,” but suddenly, holding my nephew, I related more to Cal’s school of thought. Paul was born good and pure, I could feel it in my bones. It was the cruel world that would eventually shatter his susceptible soul, making him a monster, or worse yet, a victim.

Without thought, I started to hum. The haunting melody, having been imprinted in my memory, easily seeped through my lips. Whispering the words my father sang to me, “Proschai-proschai, proschai-proschai i poskoree umirai, utrom podmorozit i ti otpravishsya na kladbische. Dedushka pridet i prineset grob. Babushka pridet i prineset pohoronnuyu odezhdu. Mat pridet i prochtet molitvu. Otec pridet i otneset tebya na kladbische,” all the while translating to English in my mind:

Bye-bye, bye-bye, quickly die, on the morning will be frost. And you’ll go to the graveyard. Grandfather will come and will bring the coffin. Grandmother will come and will bring the grave clothes. Mother will come and will sing the prayer song. Father will come and will take you to the graveyard.

“Viktor,” Igor barked, the harshness of his tone rousing the baby from his sleep. My brother ripped the wailing boy from my arms and growled, “Get out.”