At first, Henry thought his mother had simply put on a bit of weight. But there was something odd about it—her waist had rounded out, while the rest of her stayed the same. Asking felt awkward; what if she took offense? His father said nothing, just gazed at her tenderly, so Henry pretended not to notice either.
Soon, though, her belly was undeniably bigger. One evening, passing his parents’ room, Henry glimpsed his father stroking her stomach, whispering something soft. She smiled, content. The intimacy of it made him flush, and he hurried away.
“Mum’s having a baby,” he realised suddenly. The thought didn’t just surprise him—it shocked him. Yes, she was beautiful, younger-looking than most of his classmates’ mums, but pregnancy at her age? The idea repelled him. He knew where babies came from, of course, but imagining *his* parents doing *that*? Unthinkable.
“Dad,” he finally asked one day, “is Mum pregnant?” For some reason, talking to his father was easier.
“Yes. She’s always wanted a girl. Silly question, but—brother or sister, which would you prefer?”
“At *her* age?”
“What age? She’s thirty-six, I’m forty-one. Got a problem with that?”
“Did anyone ask *me*?” Henry snapped. His father studied him.
“I hope you’re old enough to understand. Your mum’s wanted a daughter for years. When you were born, we were renting. She stayed home with you while I worked—barely scraped by. We put off another child. Then your nan died, left us her flat. Remember her?”
Henry shrugged.
“We fixed it up, moved in. Once you were older and Mum started working, things got easier. Bought our first car. Kept saying we’d have a daughter ‘later.’ Then it just… didn’t happen. Until now, when we’d given up hope—”
“Hope it’s a girl, then. Mum’s young, but not *that* young. So don’t stress her out, yeah? Think before you speak. If you’ve got a problem, talk to *me*. Understood?”
“Yeah, *got it*, Dad.”
Later, they learned it *was* a girl. Pink baby clothes appeared—tiny, doll-like. A cot was assembled. Mum often zoned out, as if listening to something inside her. Dad would ask, worried, if she was alright, and Henry would catch his unease.
Personally, he couldn’t care less about the baby. A *sister*? What did he need with nappies and drool? His mind was on Emily Whitmore. If his parents wanted another kid, fine. Less hassle for him.
“Is it dangerous? At her age?” he asked.
“There’s always risk. It’s harder now than with you—she was thirteen years younger then. But we’re not in the middle of nowhere. Good hospitals, good doctors. She’ll be fine,” Dad added tiredly.
“When’s it due?”
“Two months.”
But she went into labour early. Henry woke to noise—groans, frantic footsteps. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he shuffled to his parents’ room. Mum sat hunched on the bed, rocking, hands pressed to her back. Dad darted about, grabbing things.
“Don’t forget the folder with the documents,” Mum managed, eyes clenched.
“Mum?” Henry’s sleepiness vanished, replaced by sharp alarm.
“Sorry we woke you. Where’s that *ambulance*?” Dad growled, just as the doorbell rang. Paramedics swept in, firing questions: *How far apart are the contractions? Waters broken?* During a particularly bad one, Dad answered for her.
No one noticed Henry slip out. By the time he returned, dressed, his parents were leaving. Mum shuffled in her dressing gown and slippers. At the door, Dad glanced back.
“I’ll be back soon. Tidy up here.” He hesitated—Mum gasped, sagged against him—then they were gone.
Henry stared at the door, unnerved by the sudden quiet. He checked the clock. Two more hours until school. He folded the sofa bed, picked up scattered clothes, headed to the kitchen. Dad returned as he was packing his bag.
“Well? Did she have it?” Henry searched his face.
“Not yet. They wouldn’t let me stay. Make us tea?”
Henry set out mugs, buttered toast.
“Should I go?”
“Go. I’ll call when there’s news.”
He was late.
“Ah, *Kinsley* graces us. Why?” demanded the maths teacher.
“Ambulance took Mum to hospital.”
“Sorry. Sit.”
“His mum’s in *labour*!” Fletcher crowed. Laughter rippled. Henry spun, fists clenching.
“Quiet! Kinsley, *sit*. What’s funny about that?”
Dad called during last period.
“Can I go?” Henry raised his hand.
“Can’t wait twenty minutes? And put that phone away,” snapped the English teacher.
“His mum’s in *labour*!” Fletcher again—but this time, no one laughed.
“Fine, go.”
Outside, Henry answered. “Yeah, Dad?”
“A girl! Three kilos fifty! Christ,” Dad exhaled.
Back in class, the teacher arched a brow.
“All good. A girl,” Henry said dully.
“Kinsley’s a *nanny* now!” Fletcher howled. The class erupted—just as the bell rang.
Emily caught him outside, fell into step.
“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, and for the first time, Henry felt a flicker of gladness.
Three days later, Mum came home.
“What a beauty,” Dad murmured, cradling the baby.
Henry saw nothing beautiful—a wrinkled, red-faced thing with a button nose and rosebud mouth. *Emily* was beautiful. Then the baby opened its toothless mouth and wailed, turning tomato-red. Mum bundled her close, shushing. Strange, realising his mum was now *someone else’s* mum too.
“Name?” Dad asked.
“Victoria,” Mum said.
“Sounds posh. Kids’ll call her *Tory*,” Henry muttered.
“Then Mary. After your nan.”
Life revolved around “Little Mary.” Henry was ignored except for errands—shop runs, laundry, bins. He didn’t mind.
But when Mum asked him to push the pram while she mopped, he balked. *She* should go—get fresh air. *He’d* mop.
“Not doing it. What if the lads see me?”
“She’s dressed—she’ll overheat. And put a jacket on. If you catch cold, you’ll give it to Mary. She’s too small to fight it.”
He circled the estate with the pram, grimacing—until Emily appeared. Usually, she’d pretend not to see him. Now she beelined over.
“Mary! She’s *gorgeous*!” She walked beside him. Neighbours smiled. Henry burned with embarrassment.
That night, Mum sang Mary to sleep. Henry listened, then drifted off himself.
But Mary fell ill. Fever spiked overnight. Medicine barely touched it. By morning, it climbed again. She panted, rapid and shallow. Dad called an ambulance.
No one blamed Henry, but guilt gnawed him. He hid in his room.
“Proper scare, that,” Dad said, coming in after the ambulance left.
“She’ll be okay?” Henry whispered.
“Hope so. Good meds these days… antibiotics…”
Henry hadn’t expected to care this much. At school, he flubbed answers, scored a D on material he knew cold. Returning home, he found Dad staring blankly at the kitchen wall. Dread coiled in his chest.
“Dad? You sick?”
A long silence. Then: “Mary’s gone.”
Henry thought he’d misheard—then the words landed.
“So fast… Nothing they could do…” Dad’s face crumpled into his hands.
“Dad—” Henry stepped closer, lost.
His father pulled him into a hug—and Henry felt hot tears against his neck. He broke down too.
He wished *he’d* died instead. Mum returned, hollow-eyed, a ghost. The flat turned silent, dark despite the sunny day. His heart ached for her, for Mary, for his own stupid guilt.
After the funeral, Mum sat for hours by the empty cot. She’d bolt up at night, certain she’d heard Mary cry. Dad barely got her back to bed. Weeks passed. Spring came. Joy felt gone forever.
“Roads aren’t total mud yet. Let’s take the cot and clothes to the cottage. Before your mum loses it completely,” Dad said one Saturday. “I’ll dismantle it. You pack her things. Bags are there.”
“M
