“I’m not pregnant. I’m sorry.” “What a shame,” Gran says. “You seem like you could handle a pregnancy well.” “You know, I’ve thought the same thing,” Hattie says. “But your grandson doesn’t want to get me pregnant. Told me to my face, can you believe that?” What the hell? “Hayes Richard Farrow!” Gran yells. “How dare you say you don’t want her children when you know damn well she has the hips for it?” “That’s what I told him,” Hattie says. “I pointed at my hips and said, ‘these were made for your baby.’” “Stand up,” Gran says. Hattie stands in front of her, and to my horror, Gran grips
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