At first, Ben thought his mum had just put on a bit of weight—though in a weird way. Her waist had rounded out, but the rest of her looked the same. Asking felt awkward—what if she got upset? Dad stayed quiet, just gazing at Mum with this soft look, so Ben pretended not to notice either. But soon, her belly was undeniably bigger. One day, passing their bedroom, he caught Dad stroking her stomach and murmuring something sweet. Mum was smiling, all pleased. The scene made him cringe, and he hurried off.
“Mum’s pregnant,” it hit him. The realisation shocked him more than surprised him. Sure, Mum was pretty—younger-looking than most of his mates’ mums—but the idea of her being pregnant at her age just felt… wrong. He knew where babies came from, obviously, but imagining *his* parents doing *that*? Gross.
“Dad… is Mum having a baby?” he finally asked one day. For some reason, talking to Dad was easier.
“Yeah. She’s hoping for a girl. Should’ve asked you sooner—brother or sister?”
“People her age still have babies?”
“What age? She’s thirty-six, I’m forty-one. Got a problem with it?”
“Did anyone ask *me*?” Ben snapped.
Dad gave him a long look. “You’re old enough to understand. Mum’s wanted a daughter forever. When you were born, we were renting, scraping by on my salary. Then your nan passed, left us her flat. Remember her?” Ben shrugged. “We fixed it up, moved in. Things got easier once Mum went back to work. Kept putting off another kid, saying there was time. Then… it just didn’t happen. Until now.”
“Hope it’s a girl, then. Just… don’t wind Mum up, yeah? Think before you mouth off. Deal?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Turns out, it *was* a girl. Pink baby stuff started appearing—tiny socks, doll-sized dresses. A cot. Mum kept zoning out, like she was listening to something inside her. Dad would ask, “You alright?” all worried, and Ben would catch the tension too.
Personally? He couldn’t care less about some baby sister. Nappies and tantrums—what was the point? He had Emily Fletcher on his mind. If his parents wanted another kid, fine. Less hassle for him.
“Is it dangerous? At her age?” he asked.
“Always risks. Harder now than with you—she was thirteen years younger. But we’re not in the sticks. Good hospitals here. She’ll be fine.”
“When’s it due?”
“Two months.”
But Mum went into labour early. Ben woke to muffled groans and shuffling. He stumbled to their room—Mum was hunched on the bed, rocking, Dad frantically packing a bag.
“Don’t forget the documents,” Mum gritted out.
“Mum?” Ben’s sleepiness vanished.
“Sorry we woke you. Where’s that ambulance?” Dad muttered.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Paramedics swarmed in, firing questions: *How far apart are the contractions? Waters broken?* No one noticed Ben slipping away.
By the time he’d dressed, they were leaving—Mum in slippers, Dad throwing a glance back. “Tidy up. I’ll call.”
The flat felt eerily quiet. Ben checked the clock—two more hours till school. He folded the sofa bed, dumped the laundry in the machine.
Dad returned as Ben was leaving. “She had it yet?”
“Not yet. They kicked me out. Make us tea.”
At school, he was late.
“Decided to grace us, Mr. Croft?” said the maths teacher.
“Had to call an ambulance for my mum.”
The class snickered. “Mummy’s pushing one out!” yelled Thompson. Ben spun around, fists clenched.
“Enough! Croft, sit down.”
Dad called during last period. “Can I go?” Ben asked.
“Bursting? Wait till the bell,” said the English teacher.
“His mum’s in labour!” Thompson shouted again—but this time, no one laughed.
Outside, Dad’s voice crackled: “A girl! Three kilos! Christ…”
Back in class: “Well?”
“All good. It’s a girl,” Ben mumbled.
“Oi, Croft’s gonna be a nappy-changer!” Thompson heckled. The bell drowned the laughter.
Emily caught up with him after. “How old’s your mum?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Cool. Sisters are nice. I’m an only child.”
For the first time, Ben felt… glad.
Mum came home three days later.
“Beautiful,” Dad cooed.
Ben didn’t see it. Red, wrinkly, squalling—his beauty standard was Emily. But when Mum cradled her, singing lullabies, he dozed off listening.
Then the baby got sick. Fever spiked overnight. Mum and Dad took turns holding her. By morning, nothing helped—her breathing turned ragged. Another ambulance.
No one blamed Ben, but guilt gnawed at him. He holed up in his room.
“Gave us a right scare,” Dad said, trudging in after they’d left.
“She’ll be okay?”
“Hope so. Good meds these days.”
Ben barely slept. At school, he flunked a test he’d aced before.
Dad was home when he returned—just staring. Ben’s stomach dropped.
“You sick?”
A long pause. “She’s gone.”
Ben’s brain short-circuited. “What?”
“Just… happened so fast. They couldn’t—” Dad’s voice broke.
They clung to each other, sobbing.
Mum returned hollow-eyed. The flat—once bright—felt like a tomb. Nights, she’d bolt awake, convinced she’d heard the baby cry.
A month later, Dad said, “Let’s take the cot to the countryside. Before the roads get worse.”
Mum was at Aunt Val’s. Snow still lined the motorway. Ben’s throat tightened—*She’ll never see spring.*
Then traffic jammed. A smashed-up car. A lorry driver muttering, “Just closed my eyes for a second…”
A cop held a car seat. Inside—a pink bundle. A girl, maybe his sister’s age.
“Parents didn’t make it. Kid’s untouched,” the cop said.
The baby wailed. The cop panicked.
“Let me. I had a little sister,” Ben lied.
The baby quieted in his arms.
“Brother?” A medic reached for her.
Ben hesitated. “You’re taking her?”
“Hospital, then foster care.”
“Dad—” Ben shot him a look.
Dad stepped in. “We lost a baby recently. My wife’s… not coping. Could we—?”
“Apply through social services. Hand her over.”
Reluctantly, Ben did. “What’s her name?”
“Violet.”
They exchanged a glance.
“Home,” Dad said.
“But Mum—what if she says no?”
Mum was staring at the empty space where the cot had been.
“Back so soon?” she said dully.
Ben blurted, “We found Violet.”
“Who?”
They explained. Mum was silent. Then: “I’ll go to the hospital tomorrow.”
Ben and Dad cheered.
