At first, Henry thought his mother had simply put on a bit of weight. Oddly, though—her waist had rounded out, but the rest of her stayed the same. Asking felt awkward, in case she got upset. His father stayed quiet, gazing at Mum with tenderness, so Henry pretended not to notice either.
But soon, her stomach was unmistakably bigger. One evening, passing his parents’ room, he caught his father stroking Mum’s belly, whispering something affectionate. She smiled, content. Henry flushed and hurried away.
“Mum’s expecting,” he realised. The thought shocked him more than surprised her. She was pretty—younger-looking than most of his classmates’ mums—but pregnancy at her age felt wrong. He knew where babies came from, but imagining his own parents doing *that* was unbearable.
“Dad… is Mum having a baby?” he finally asked. Somehow, talking to his father was easier.
“Yes. She’s always wanted a girl. Silly question, but—would you prefer a brother or sister?”
“Do people her age even *have* babies?”
“What do you mean? She’s only thirty-six. I’m forty-one. Are you against it?”
“Did anyone ask *me*?” Henry snapped.
His father studied him. “You’re old enough to understand. When you were born, we lived in a rented flat. I was the only one working—money was tight. We waited. Then your gran passed, left us her place. Remember her?”
Henry shrugged.
“We fixed it up, moved in. When you got older, Mum went back to work. Money got easier. We kept saying we’d have a girl later. Then it just… didn’t happen. Until now.” He sighed. “Hope it’s a girl, for Mum’s sake. She’s young, but not *that* young. So don’t stress her, alright? Think before you speak. If anything bothers you, talk to me. Deal?”
“Yeah, got it.”
Later, they found out it *was* a girl. Pink baby clothes appeared around the house—tiny, doll-like. A crib was set up. Mum often spaced out, as if listening to something inside her. Dad would ask, nervous, if she was alright. Henry caught his worry.
Personally, he couldn’t care less. A sister? Nappies and drool? All he cared about was Emily Whitmore. If his parents wanted another kid, fine. Less attention on him.
“Is it dangerous? Her age, I mean,” he asked.
“There’s always risk. It’s harder for her now than with you—thirteen years older. But we’re not in the middle of nowhere. Good hospitals, doctors… She’ll be fine.”
“When’s it due?”
“Two months.”
But Mum went into labour a month early. Henry woke to noise—groans, frantic footsteps. He stumbled to their room. Mum sat on the crumpled bed, hands on her back, swaying like a pendulum. Dad darted about, grabbing things.
“Don’t forget the documents,” Mum forced out, eyes shut.
“Mum—” Henry’s sleepiness vanished.
“Sorry we woke you. Where’s that ambulance?” Dad muttered.
The doorbell answered. Paramedics rushed in, firing questions: *Contractions? How far apart? Waters broken?* No one noticed Henry slip away.
By the time he returned, dressed, Mum was leaving—still in her dressing gown. Dad turned at the door. “I’ll be back soon. Tidy up.” He hesitated—Mum gasped, sagged against him.
Henry stared at the closed door, unnerved by the sudden silence. He checked the clock. Two more hours of sleep. He folded the sofa, tidied, then headed to the kitchen.
Dad returned as Henry left for school.
“Well? Did she have it?”
“Not yet. They wouldn’t let me in. Pour me tea.”
Henry did, made toast. “Should I go?”
“Go. I’ll call with news.”
He was late.
“Kinsley honours us with his presence. Why?” demanded the maths teacher.
“Mum was taken to hospital.”
“Sorry. Sit.”
“His mum’s in labour!” shouted Fletcher. Laughter erupted. Henry whirled.
“Quiet! Kinsley, *sit*. What’s funny?”
Dad rang during last lesson.
“Can I go?” Henry raised his hand.
“Can’t wait? Twenty minutes left. And put that phone away,” said the English teacher.
“His mum’s in labour!” Fletcher yelled again. No one laughed this time.
“Fine. Go.”
“Dad?” Henry stepped into the corridor.
“A girl! Three kilos! God…” Dad exhaled shakily.
“Well?” the teacher asked when he returned.
“All good. A girl.”
“Kinsley’s a babysitter now!” Fletcher cackled. The class erupted—drowned out the bell.
Emily caught him outside.
“How old’s your mum?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Don’t get me wrong—I’m happy for you. A sister’s lovely. I’m an only child. My parents didn’t want more…” They walked, talking. For the first time, Henry felt glad about his sister.
Three days later, Mum came home.
“Beautiful,” Dad murmured, gazing at the baby.
Henry saw nothing beautiful. A tiny, wrinkled thing—red face, rosebud mouth, button nose. His beauty standard was Emily. Then the baby opened her toothless mouth and screeched, turning tomato-red. Mum cradled her, shushing. Strange, realising his mother was someone else’s mum now.
“What’ll we call her?” Dad asked.
“Violet,” said Mum.
“Sounds like a cat’s name. Kids’ll call her Vi,” Henry scoffed.
“Then Alice. After your gran,” Dad suggested.
Life revolved around “little Alice.” Henry was ignored—just asked to run errands. He didn’t mind.
But when Mum asked him to push the pram, he balked. “What if the lads see me? They’ll take the mick.”
“She’s bundled up. And dress warm—you’ll catch cold, pass it to her. She’s too little to fight it.”
Henry circled the estate with the pram, miserable—until Emily appeared. Usually, she’d pretend not to see him. Now she beelined over.
“Alice! She’s gorgeous!” She walked beside him. Neighbours smiled. Henry burned with embarrassment.
That night, Mum sang Alice to sleep. Henry listened, drifting off.
Then Alice got sick. A fever spiked. Medicine barely touched it. By morning, it soared again. Her breaths came fast, laboured. Dad called an ambulance.
No one blamed Henry, but guilt gnawed him. He hid in his room.
“She’s giving us hell,” Dad said, entering later.
“Will she get better?”
“Hope so. Good meds now, antibiotics…”
Henry hadn’t expected to care. At school, he flubbed answers, scored a D despite knowing the material. Returning home, he found Dad staring blankly at the kitchen wall.
“Dad? You ill?”
A long pause.
“Alice is gone.”
Henry thought he’d misheard. Then it hit.
“So fast… They couldn’t…—” Dad’s voice broke. He hid his face.
“Dad—” Henry moved closer, lost for words.
Dad hugged him. Henry saw him cry for the first time—and sobbed like a child himself.
He wished *he* could vanish. Die instead of Alice.
Mum returned from hospital, a ghost of herself. The flat was silent, dark despite the sunny day. Henry’s heart split—pity for Mum, for Alice, guilt chewing him up.
After the funeral, Mum sat by the empty crib for hours. At night, she’d bolt awake, convinced she heard Alice crying. Dad struggled to coax her back to bed. Weeks passed. Spring came. Laughter seemed gone for good.
“Roads are still passable. Let’s take the crib and things to the cottage. Before Mum loses it completely,” Dad said one Saturday. “I’ll dismantle it. You pack her clothes, toys. Bags are there.”
“What about Mum?”
“Gone to Aunt Val’s. Better she doesn’t see.”
Snow lingered by the motorway. Sun peeked through grey clouds. Henry realised Alice would never see spring, never squint in sunlight, never hear thunder. Tears welled. He shook, silently crying.
Suddenly, Dad pulled over.
“Wait here. I’ll check if they need help.”
Henry hadn’t noticed the cars ahead, the police clustered around a wreck—a red car, crushed. A lorry driver sat on the step, muttering, “Only closed my eyes a second…” An officer held a car seat. Inside, a pink bundle. Henry moved closer. A baby girl, Alice’s age, slept.
“Parents died on impact. Not a scratch on her,” the officer said.
Sirens wailed
