Page 64 of Finding Forgiveness

“I need to show you something.”

“Why do you look like you’ve been attacked by a wild animal?”

“I do?”

“Your face is covered in dirt, and your hair is sticking up all over the place.” I reach up, trying to flatten it out with my hand. “Is that a piece of straw?” she asks.

I pull it out and drop it on the ground. “Don’t worry about how I look, it’s not important.”

She gasps. “Since when is your appearance not important?”

“Since this,” I say, swinging around the camera on my phone.

“What’s that?”

“The baby piglets I just helped Porkchop deliver.” I’m smiling through my tears as I look down at all eight of them. The vet has just left … she only got here in time for the last two births, but she’s since given both Porkchop and her sweet little babies a clean bill of health. Six girls and two boys. I basically did it all solo and I’ve never been one to toot my own trumpet, but I’m incredibly proud of myself.

“Porkchop?”

“Yes, that’s the mother’s name. The father is Chris P. Bacon.”

“What the hell. Please tell me you didn’t name them that?”

“No, Martha did, but she said I could name the babies.”

“Who’s Martha?”

“She’s from The Dancing Goat.”

“From the where … Cassie, are you drunk?”

“No!”

“Have you been smoking anything?”

“Of course not, I’m just high on life.” Bringing eight little lives into the world will do that to you.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I’m making perfect sense,” I snap.

“You ignore all my calls and texts for over a week, then suddenly you ring me out of the blue looking like a dishevelled lunatic, talking about farm animals with obscenely offensive names and dancing goats, excuse me if I sound concerned.”

“I haven’t been ignoring you. I sent you a picture of me feeding Delilah a bottle.”

“So the goats have normal names?”

“Actually, its real name is Goaty McGoatface, but that’s a mouthful, so I call it Delilah for short.”

“In what universe is Delilah short for Goaty McGoatface? It would be Goaty, Goatface, McG … something along those lines.”

“Lame,” I scoff.

“Whatever. Is she the one who dances?”

“Who?”

“Goaty McGoatface. Or is it Martha?”