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Summary
Tomas Watson was born on the ninth of April, on a warm sunny afternoon in some hospital in some city his parents couldn’t be bothered to memorize.
When he was born, he cried. Not like any other baby, though, he cried for hours upon hours after his birth, his mother was surprised his face hadn’t turned blue.
The nurse had tried everything she knew. Rocking him, humming softly, pacing the length of the room with him bundled awkwardly against her shoulder. Nothing worked. Tomas cried until his tiny fists curled tight and his voice went hoarse, as if he had already decided the world had wronged him.
His father, Phil, had been the one to take him eventually.
He held the boy like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with him, one large hand supporting the back of the baby’s head while the other steadied the blanket wrapped around him. For a moment Tomas kept crying, face scrunched and red and furious.
Or, a historical fiction SBI au where Wilbur goes to war and Tommy is left at home.
I do not support Wilbur Soot.