**The Other Child**
At first, Harry thought his mother had simply put on weight. Oddly, only her waist had rounded, while the rest of her remained unchanged. Asking felt awkward—what if she took offence? His father said nothing, gazing tenderly at her, so Harry pretended not to notice. Soon, however, her belly swelled unmistakably. One evening, passing his parents’ room, he glimpsed his father stroking her stomach, whispering something soft that made her smile. The sight embarrassed him, and he hurried away.
“Mum’s expecting,” Harry realised. The thought shocked him more than surprised her. True, she was still pretty—more so than most of his classmates’ mums—but pregnancy at her age felt wrong. He knew where babies came from, of course, but imagining *his* parents that way was unbearable.
“Dad… Mum’s having a baby, isn’t she?” he finally asked one day, finding it easier to broach with his father.
“Yes. She’s always wanted a daughter. Stupid of me to ask, 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*?” Harry snapped.
His father studied him. “You’re old enough to understand. When you were born, we were scraping by. I worked; your mum stayed home. We couldn’t afford another. Then Gran died, left us her flat—remember her?”
Harry shrugged.
“We fixed it up, moved in. Later, when Mum went back to work, things got easier. We kept saying we’d have a girl *later*… until we couldn’t. Then, just when we’d given up hope—”
“Hope it’s a girl, then,” Harry muttered. “Just… don’t upset Mum. Think before you speak. Deal?”
“Yeah, got it.”
When they learned it *was* a girl, pink baby clothes appeared—tiny, doll-like. A cot was assembled. Mum often drifted off mid-conversation, lost in thought, making Dad ask anxiously if she was all right. Harry caught his worry but couldn’t care less about the baby. What did he want with nappies and dribble? He had Emily Whitmore. If his parents wanted another child, fine. Less hassle for him.
“Is it dangerous? At 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, doctors… She’ll be fine.”
“When’s it due?”
“Two months.”
But the baby came early. Harry woke to muffled groans and shuffling. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he stumbled to his parents’ room. Mum sat hunched on the bed, rocking, while Dad frantically packed a bag.
“Don’t forget the documents,” she managed.
“Mum—” Harry was fully awake now, pulse racing.
“Sorry we woke you. Where’s that ambulance?” Dad muttered.
The doorbell answered. Paramedics rushed in, firing questions Harry barely understood. Ignored, he slipped out to dress. By the time he returned, they were leaving—Mum in slippers and a dressing gown.
“Tidy up. I’ll be back soon,” Dad called, but Mum gasped, clinging to his arm.
The flat fell silent. Harry checked the clock—two more hours before school. He folded the sofa bed, cleared the mess, then made tea. Dad returned as he was leaving.
“Well? Did she—”
“Not yet. They wouldn’t let me stay.”
Harry handed him a sandwich. “Should I go?”
“Go. I’ll call with news.”
He was late.
“Ah, Mr. Harris graces us,” said the maths teacher. “Reason?”
“Mum went to hospital.”
“Sit down.”
“His mum’s giving birth!” shouted Fletcher. Laughter erupted. Harry spun round.
“Quiet! Harris, sit. What’s so funny?”
The call came during last period.
“Can I go?” Harry raised his hand.
“Can’t wait twenty minutes? And put that phone away,” snapped the English teacher.
“His mum’s in labour!” Fletcher yelled again—but this time, no one laughed.
“Fine, go.”
In the corridor, Harry answered. “Dad?”
“A girl! Three and a quarter pounds! Christ…” Relief flooded his father’s voice.
“Well?” the teacher asked when he returned.
“It’s a girl,” he mumbled.
“Harris is a babysitter now!” Fletcher crowed. The class erupted just as the bell rang.
Outside, Emily fell into step beside him.
“How old’s your mum?” she asked.
“Thirty-six.”
“That’s… nice. A sister’s lovely. I’m an only child—my parents didn’t want more.”
For the first time, Harry felt glad.
Three days later, Mum came home.
“Beautiful,” Dad murmured over the cot.
Harry saw nothing beautiful—just a wrinkled, red-faced thing with a button nose. His beauty standard was Emily. Then the baby screeched, turning tomato-red. Mum scooped her up, shushing. Strange, realising his mother was now someone else’s too.
“Name?” Dad asked.
“Matilda,” said Mum.
“Sounds like a cat. Kids’ll call her Tilly,” Harry scoffed.
“Then Alice, after Gran.”
Life revolved around “little Alice.” Harry was ignored, except to run errands. He didn’t mind—until Mum asked him to push the pram while she mopped.
“No way! The lads’ll laugh.”
“She’s bundled up. And dress warm—you’ll make her sick.”
Circling the courtyard, he spotted Emily. Normally she’d ignore him—but today, she beelined over.
“Alice! She’s gorgeous.” Neighbours smiled as they strolled. Harry burned with embarrassment.
That night, Mum sang Alice to sleep. Harry drifted off listening.
Then Alice fell ill. Fever spiked overnight. Medicine barely helped. By morning, she struggled to breathe. The ambulance came.
No one blamed Harry, but guilt gnawed him. He barely left his room.
“Giving us hell,” Dad said, entering after the ambulance left.
“Will she… get better?”
“Hope so. Good medicines these days…”
Harry hadn’t expected to care. At school, he flubbed answers, scored poorly. Returning home, he found Dad staring blankly.
“Why’re you back? Sick?”
A long pause.
“Alice is gone.”
Harry blinked. Then it hit him.
“So fast… They couldn’t…” Dad hid his face, voice breaking.
“Dad—” Harry hugged him, shocked to see him cry. Then he was sobbing too.
He wished *he* had died instead.
Mum returned, a ghost of herself. The flat drowned in silence, though sunlight blazed outside. Guilt and pity tore Harry apart.
For weeks, Mum lingered by the empty cot, jolting awake at imagined cries. Dad barely coaxed her to bed. Spring came, but joy seemed gone forever.
“Before the roads get worse, we’ll take the cot and things to the cottage,” Dad said one Saturday. “Pack her clothes and toys.”
“Mum?”
“At Aunt Val’s. She shouldn’t see this.”
Snow still lined the motorway. Sun pierced grey clouds. Harry thought Alice would never see spring, never squint in sunlight—then tears came.
Suddenly, Dad pulled over. Police cars ahead. Harry followed. A red wreck; a lorry driver muttering, “I just closed my eyes…” An officer held a car seat. Inside, a pink bundle. Harry drew closer—a baby girl, Alice’s age.
“Parents dead, not a scratch on her,” the officer said.
Sirens wailed. The baby woke, wailing too. The officer faltered.
“Let me. I had a sister…”
Skeptical, the man handed her over. Harry cradled her—and she quieted.
“How’d you do that?”
“This the car baby? Come.” Another officer waved them to the ambulance.
“Brother?” The medic reached for the baby. Harry stepped back.
“You’re taking her?”
“Hospital, then foster care.”
“Dad—” Harry shot his father a look.
“Could we… take her?” Dad asked. “We lost a baby her age. My wife’s—broken. She’d save us both.”
“God, yes. Apply through social services. Now, hand her over.”
Reluctantly, Harry did. “Her name?”
“Matilda.”
They exchanged glances.
“Home,” Dad said. “No point at the cottage.”
Harry relaxed. Odd, caring for a stranger.
“What if Mum says no?”
Mum sat staring at the empty space where the cot had been.
“Back already? Roads bad?”
“Mum—we found Matilda,” Harry burst
