The first page was of Christian as a newborn, mouth wide open, screaming mad. Underneath the picture written in blue calligraphy it read: Maxwell Chri...tian Roberts. Max’s heart sped up and he had the urge to throw the book from his lap, as if it was on fire. His eyes flew up to meet Megan’s. She smiled feebly at him. ‘Why does that say Maxwell Roberts?’ ‘Because, he is your son.’ She answered him quietly. ‘We use his middle name instead.’ ‘Why did you not tell me? Not one of the letters you. That never failed to send pangs of raw lust coursing through my erogenous zones, including some of the ones I only learned about in the Tantric Yoga workshop. If my panties hadn’t already flooded, they did now. I know exactly what you’re thinking: “Mari M. Marlow, PhD! You, of all people, a humanist and female academic, should know better. You’re objectifying an innocent young woman. You’re a lesbian slut and a traitor to Feminism.” To which I reply: “Just hold your horses. Objectification is. More

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