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"Let's have breakfast, Baby."

It’s like I’m dealing with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde when he suddenly switch from giving that glare and uttered those hurtful words in such sharp tone, into this gentleman, the invitation was softly spoken as if he’s being careful not to break his Baby.

"What would you like?” He asks in what seems like a whisper right after kneeling in front of me, directly facing my bump, “Pancakes? Waffles? French toast?”

Placing a palm on one side of the bump, he continues asking my stomach, “Or a steak?" then proceeds to chuckle at his own joke.

I can’t help but to smile at this silliness because that was indeed a very bad joke but the way he tried to crack one with my tummy, it’s like watching a psychiatric patient talking to a wall.

“Come on, let’s go downstairs. I’ll make it a surprise.”

He stands up and towers over me, the smiley face is gone the moment he looks at me. Huh, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde indeed. Who knew I’d be living in a famous storybook at the age of 33.