At first, Harry thought his mum had just put on a bit of weight. But in a strange way—her waist had rounded out, but the rest of her stayed the same. Asking felt awkward—what if she got upset? His dad just smiled at her softly, so Harry pretended not to notice either.
But soon, her belly was undeniably bigger. One day, passing his parents’ room, Harry caught a glimpse of his dad stroking her stomach and whispering something tender. She smiled, looking pleased. The scene made him cringe, and he hurried away.
“Mum’s having a baby,” he realised. The thought didn’t just surprise him—it shocked him. Sure, his mum was pretty, younger-looking than most of his mates’ mums, but the idea of her being pregnant at her age twisted his stomach. He knew where babies came from, obviously, but imagining *his* parents doing… *that*? No. That was *his* mum and dad.
“Dad… Mum’s pregnant, isn’t she?” he finally asked one day—somehow easier to talk to his dad about it.
“Yeah. She’s hoping for a little girl. Bit daft asking, but… brother or sister, what d’you reckon?”
“Do people even have kids at her age?”
“What age? She’s only thirty-six, I’m forty-one. You got a problem with it?”
“Did anyone ask *me*?” Harry snapped.
His dad gave him a long look. “Hope you’re grown-up enough to understand. Your mum’s wanted a daughter for years. When you were born, we were renting, scraping by on my wages. Then your nan passed, left us her flat—remember her?”
Harry shrugged.
“We fixed it up, moved in. When you were older, your mum went back to work, things got easier. Kept saying ‘next year’ for a girl, till it just… didn’t happen. Then, when we’d given up…”
“Hope it’s a girl, then, for Mum. Just—don’t wind her up, yeah? Think before you mouth off. Got it?”
“‘Course,” Harry muttered.
Later, they found out it *was* a girl. Pink baby clothes appeared—tiny, doll-sized. A cot was set up. Mum kept zoning out, like she was listening to something inside her. Dad would ask, nervous, if she was okay. Harry caught the worry, though *he* couldn’t care less about a baby sister. Nappies and whining? No thanks. He only had eyes for Lily Dawson.
“Is it… dangerous? Her age?” he asked once.
“There’s always risk. Harder for her now than with you—thirteen years younger then. But we’re not in the middle of nowhere—good hospitals here. She’ll be fine,” Dad said, tired.
“When’s it due?”
“Two months.”
But she came early. Harry woke to noise—groans, frantic shuffling next door. He stumbled in, squinting. Mum was on the bed, gripping her back, rocking like a pendulum. Dad raced around, shoving things into a bag.
“Don’t forget the folder with the documents,” Mum gritted out, eyes shut.
“Mum—” Harry was wide awake now, heart pounding.
“Sorry we woke you. Where’s that *bloody* ambulance?” Dad barked at no one.
The doorbell answered. Paramedics swept in, firing questions—“How far apart are the contractions? Waters broken?”—while Mum clenched through another wave. Ignored, Harry slipped out. By the time he dressed, they were leaving, Mum in slippers and a robe.
“Tidy up. I’ll be back—” Dad started, but Mum gasped, sagging against him.
Harry stared at the door, unnerved by the sudden quiet. Two hours until school—he could still sleep. Instead, he folded the sofa, picked up stray clothes, made tea. Dad returned as Harry was leaving.
“Well? Did she…?”
“Not yet. They kicked me out.”
Harry handed him a cuppa, slapped together sandwiches.
“Go on. I’ll call with news,” Dad promised.
Harry was late.
“Ah, *Kingsley* graces us. Why?” snapped Mr. Harris, maths.
“Mum went to hospital.”
“Sit down.”
“His mum’s *pushing one out*!” yelled Thompson. Laughter erupted. Harry spun, fist clenched.
“*Enough*. Kingsley, sit. What’s funny about that?”
The call came during last period.
“Can I go?” Harry raised his hand.
“*Now*? Twenty minutes left. Phone away,” said Mrs. Cole, English.
“His mum’s in *labour*,” Thompson jeered—but this time, no one laughed.
“Go on,” Mrs. Cole sighed.
“Dad?” Harry stepped into the hall.
“A girl! Three kilos! *Christ*—” Dad’s voice cracked with relief.
“Well?” Mrs. Cole asked when he returned.
“All good. A girl,” Harry mumbled.
“Kingsley’s a *nanny* now!” Thompson crowed. The class erupted—right as the bell rang.
Lily caught up outside, falling into step.
“How old’s your mum?”
“Thirty-six.”
“That’s… I’m happy for you. A sister’s brilliant. I’m an only child—Mum and Dad didn’t want more…”
Walking with her, Harry felt it—a flicker of gladness.
Three days later, Mum came home.
“Beautiful,” Dad whispered, staring at the baby.
Harry saw a wrinkled, red-faced thing with a bow mouth and button nose. *Lily* was beautiful. Then his sister opened her toothless mouth and screeched, face turning tomato-red. Mum bundled her close, shushing. It was weird—his mum was *someone else’s* mum now.
“Name?” Dad asked.
“Sophie,” Mum said.
“Sounds like a *cat*,” Harry snorted.
“Then Emily. After your nan,” Dad offered.
Life revolved around “Emmy” now. Harry was ignored unless they needed errands—milk, laundry, bins. He didn’t mind.
But when Mum asked him to push the pram while she mopped, he balked. *He’d* mop—let *her* get air.
“No way. The lads’ll take the mick,” he grumbled.
“She’s bundled up. *You* wrap up too—you’ll catch cold, pass it to her.”
He circled the block, pram in tow, when Lily appeared. Usually she’d pretend not to see him. Now she beelined over.
“Emily! She’s *gorgeous*,” she cooed, falling into step. Neighbours smiled. Harry burned with embarrassment.
That night, Mum sang Emmy to sleep. Harry drifted off listening.
Then Emmy got sick. A midnight fever. Medicine barely touched it. Mum and Dad took turns holding her. By morning, her breathing turned ragged. The ambulance came.
No one blamed Harry, but guilt choked him. He hid in his room.
“Proper scared us,” Dad said, coming in after they’d left.
“She’ll be okay… right?”
“Hope so. Good meds these days…”
Harry hadn’t expected to care. At school, he flubbed answers, scored a D on a test he knew cold. Coming home, he found Dad staring blankly at the kitchen wall.
“Dad? You sick?”
A long pause. Then—
“Emmy’s gone.”
The words didn’t land at first.
“It was… fast. Nothing they could do…” Dad’s voice broke.
Harry didn’t know what to say. Dad pulled him in—and for the first time, Harry saw him cry. He sobbed too, like a little kid.
He wished *he* could’ve died instead.
Mum returned—a ghost of herself. The flat turned silent, dark despite the sunny day outside. Harry’s chest ached for her, for Emmy, for the guilt gnawing at him.
After the funeral, Mum sat by the empty cot for hours. She’d wake at night, sure she’d heard Emmy crying. A week passed. A month. Spring came. Joy felt gone forever.
“Before the roads get worse, we’ll take the cot and things to the cottage. Can’t have Mum losing it,” Dad said one Saturday. “I’ll dismantle it—you pack the clothes and toys. Bags there.”
“Mum?”
“At Aunt Val’s. She shouldn’t see this.”
Snow still lined the motorway. Grey clouds choked the sun. Harry realised—Emmy would never see spring, never squint in sunlight, never hear thunder… Tears came. Silent sobs shook him.
Dad pulled onto the hard shoulder. “Wait here.”
Up ahead—cars, police. A red wreck. A lorry driver sat on the step, muttering, “Just closed my eyes for a second…” An officer cradled a car seat. Inside—
