At first, Henry thought his mum had simply put on a bit of weight. But it was odd—her waist had rounded out while the rest of her stayed the same. Asking felt awkward—what if she got upset? His dad just watched her with tender eyes, saying nothing, so Henry pretended not to notice either.
Soon, though, her belly grew unmistakably. One evening, passing their bedroom, Henry glimpsed his dad stroking her stomach, whispering something soft. She smiled, content. The sight made his cheeks burn, and he hurried away.
“Mum’s expecting,” he realised suddenly. The thought shocked him more than surprised her. She was pretty—younger-looking than most of his mates’ mums—but pregnancy at her age? It felt wrong. He knew where babies came from, but imagining his parents like that? No. That was his mum and dad.
“Dad… Mum’s having a baby, isn’t she?” he finally asked one night. Somehow, talking to his dad was easier.
“Yeah. She’s always wanted a girl. Silly question, but—brother or sister?”
“At her age?”
“What age? She’s thirty-six. I’m forty-one. Got a problem with it?”
“Did anyone ask me?” Henry snapped.
His dad studied him. “You’re old enough to understand. When you were born, we lived in a rented flat. Mum stayed home, I barely made ends meet. We waited. Then your nan passed, left us her place. Remember her?”
Henry shrugged.
“We fixed it up, moved in. Money got better when Mum went back to work. Kept saying we’d try for a girl later… then it just never happened. Until now.”
“Hope it’s a girl, then. Just—don’t wind Mum up, yeah? Think before you speak. Got it?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Later, they found out it *was* a girl. Pink baby clothes, tiny as doll’s things, filled the house. A crib appeared. Mum often zoned out, like she was listening to something inside. Dad would ask, tense, if she was alright. Henry caught his unease.
Personally? He couldn’t care less. Snot and nappies? He only had eyes for Emily Whitmore. If his parents wanted another kid, fine. Less hassle for him.
“Is it dangerous? At her age?”
“There’s always risk. Harder now than with you—she was thirteen years younger. But we’re not in the middle of nowhere. Good hospitals here. She’ll be alright.”
“When’s it due?”
“Two months.”
But she came early. Henry woke to muffled cries and frantic footsteps. He stumbled to their room—Mum sat hunched on the bed, rocking, hands pressed to her back. Dad dashed about, shoving things into a bag.
“Don’t forget the documents,” Mum gritted out.
“Dad?” Henry’s sleepiness vanished.
“Sorry, mate. Ambulance’s late—” The doorbell cut him off. Paramedics swept in, firing questions.
*How long between contractions? Waters broken?*
Ignored, Henry slipped out. When he returned dressed, they were leaving—Mum in slippers, clutching Dad’s arm.
“Tidy up. I’ll be back,” Dad tossed over his shoulder before the door shut.
Henry stared at the silence. Two more hours until school. He folded the sofa bed, cleared the mess, made tea. Dad returned as he was leaving.
“She had it?”
“Not yet. They kicked me out.”
Henry set down a cuppa, buttered toast.
“Go to school. I’ll ring with news.”
He didn’t.
“Late again, Cooper?” sighed Mr. Harris, maths.
“Ambulance took Mum to hospital.”
“Sorry. Sit down.”
“His mum’s giving birth!” shouted Davies. Laughter crackled. Henry whirled.
“Quiet! Cooper, sit. What’s funny about that?”
Dad called during last period.
“Can I go?” Henry raised his hand.
“Bursting? Twenty minutes left. And put that phone away,” said Mrs. Clarke, English.
“His mum’s in labour!” Davies again. No one laughed this time.
“Go on,” Mrs. Clarke relented.
“Yeah, Dad?” Henry stepped into the hall.
“Girl! Three kilos two! Christ—” Relief crackled down the line.
“Well?” Mrs. Clarke asked as he re-entered.
“All good. A girl.”
“Cooper’s a babysitter now!” Davies crowed. The class erupted just as the bell rang.
Emily caught him outside.
“How old’s your mum?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Don’t get me wrong—it’s brilliant. A sister! I’m an only child. Mine didn’t want more…” They walked, talking, and for the first time, Henry felt glad about the baby.
Three days later, Mum came home.
“Look at her,” Dad breathed.
Henry saw nothing beautiful—just a wrinkled, red-faced thing with a button nose. His beauty standard was Emily. Then the baby screeched, face flushing tomato-red. Mum scooped her up, shushing. Strange, realising his mum was someone else’s mum now.
“Name?” Dad asked.
“Matilda,” Mum said.
“Sounds like a cat. Kids’ll call her Tilly,” Henry muttered.
“Then Charlotte. After your gran,” Dad said.
Life orbited “Lottie.” Henry became an errand boy—groceries, laundry, the bins. He didn’t mind.
But when Mum asked him to push the pram while she mopped, he balked.
“No way. What if the lads see me?”
“She’s bundled up. And *you* wrap up—it’s freezing. You’ll get her sick. She’s too little—”
He circled the estate, scowling, until Emily appeared. She never used to acknowledge him. Now she cooed at the pram, walking beside him. Neighbours smiled. Henry burned with embarrassment.
That night, Mum sang lullabies. Henry drifted off listening.
Then Lottie fell ill. Fever spiked at midnight. Medicine barely touched it. Mum and Dad took turns holding her. By morning, her breaths came fast and shallow. The ambulance took them.
No one blamed Henry. But guilt gnawed him. He holed up in his room.
“Proper poorly,” Dad said later, slumped in his chair.
“She’ll be okay, yeah?”
“Hope so. Good meds these days…”
Henry hadn’t expected to care. At school, he flubbed answers, scored a D on a test he knew cold. Returning home, he found Dad staring blankly at the kitchen wall.
“Dad? You sick?”
A long pause. Then—
“Lottie’s gone.”
Henry thought he’d misheard. Then it hit.
“So quick… Nothing they could do…” Dad’s face crumpled into his hands. A choked sound escaped.
“Dad—” Henry stepped closer, lost.
His dad pulled him into a hug. Henry had never seen him cry before. He wept too, like a little kid.
He wished *he* could’ve died instead. Mum returned later, hollow-eyed, a ghost. The flat felt tomb-silent, though sunlight poured outside. Henry’s chest ached with pity—for her, for Lottie, for his own guilt.
After the funeral, Mum sat by the empty crib for hours. Some nights, she’d bolt awake, sure she’d heard crying. Dad barely got her back to bed. Weeks blurred. Spring came. Joy seemed gone for good.
“Roads are still passable. Let’s take the crib to the cottage before Mum loses it,” Dad said one Saturday. “I’ll dismantle it. Bag up her things.”
“Mum?”
“At Aunt Val’s. She shouldn’t see this.”
Snow still lined the motorway. Sun fought through grey clouds. Henry realised Lottie would never see spring, never squint at sunlight, never hear thunder— He trembled, tears hot.
Suddenly, Dad pulled over. Up ahead—police cars, a crumpled red sedan. A lorry driver sat on his step, muttering, “Just closed my eyes a second…” An officer cradled a car seat. Inside, a pink bundle. Henry moved closer. A baby girl, Lottie’s age, slept peacefully.
“Parents didn’t make it. Not a scratch on her,” the cop said.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The baby woke, wailing just like Lottie. The cop floundered.
“Give her here. I’ve had a sister,” Henry blurted.
The cop hesitated, then handed her over. Henry held her close. She quieted instantly.
“How’d you do that?” the cop asked.
“From the crash? This way.” Another officer waved Henry toward an ambulance.
“Brother?” A medic reached for the baby. Henry stepped back.
“You’re taking her?”
“Hospital first, then foster care unless relatives turn up.”
“
