**Other People’s Children**
At first, Harry thought his mum had just put on a bit of weight. Oddly, though—her waist had rounded out, but the rest of her stayed the same. It felt awkward to ask, in case she took offence. His dad just watched her with this soft look in his eyes, so Harry pretended not to notice either.
But soon, her belly was undeniably bigger. One day, passing his parents’ room, Harry caught his dad stroking her stomach and murmuring something tender. She smiled, content. The sight made him flustered, and he hurried away.
“Mum’s having a baby,” he realised. The thought didn’t shock him as much as disgust him. Sure, his 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, but imagining *his* parents doing *that*? Unthinkable.
“Dad… Mum’s expecting, isn’t she?” he finally asked one day. For some reason, talking to his dad about it was easier.
“Yeah. She’s hoping for a girl. Silly to ask, really, but—brother or sister, what d’you reckon?”
“People don’t have kids at her age, do they?”
“What age? She’s thirty-six, I’m forty-one. Got a problem with it?”
“Did anyone ask *me*?” Harry snapped.
His dad gave him a long look. “You’re old enough to understand. Your mum always wanted a daughter. When you were born, we were renting. She stayed home, I worked—barely scraped by. We waited. Then your gran passed, left us her flat. Remember her?”
Harry shrugged.
“We fixed it up, moved in. When you were older, she went back to work. Money got easier—I even bought my first car. We kept putting off a daughter, saying there was time. Then it just… didn’t happen. Until now, when we’d given up hoping.”
“Hope it’s a girl, then. Mum’s still young, but… not *that* young. So watch your mouth, yeah? Think before you say something daft. Anything bothers you, talk to me. Deal?”
“Yeah, alright.”
Later, they found out it *was* a girl. Pink baby clothes started appearing around the house—tiny, doll-sized. A cot was set up. His mum often zoned out, like she was listening to something inside herself. His dad would ask, tense, if she was okay, and Harry would catch that worry too.
Personally, he couldn’t care less about the baby—especially a sister. Nappies and dribble? No thanks. The only girl on his mind was Emily Dawson. If his parents wanted another kid, fine. Less hassle for him.
“Is it dangerous? Her age, I mean,” he asked.
“There’s always risk. Yeah, it’s harder now than with you—thirteen years younger then. But we’re not in the middle of nowhere. Good hospitals, doctors… She’ll be fine,” his dad said, tired.
“How long?”
“Till the baby comes? Two months.”
But she came early. Harry woke to noise—groans, frantic shuffling next door. He stumbled to his parents’ room. His mum sat on the crumpled bed, hands on her back, rocking like a pendulum. His dad dashed about, grabbing things.
“Don’t forget the folder with the papers,” she gasped, eyes clenched.
“Mum—” Harry was wide awake now, nerves catching.
“Sorry we woke you. Where’s that ambulance?” his dad muttered.
The doorbell answered him. Paramedics rushed in, firing questions: *How long between contractions? Waters broken?* No one paid Harry any mind, so he slipped out. When he returned dressed, his parents were leaving—Mum in her dressing gown and slippers. His dad glanced back.
“I’ll be back soon. Tidy up here.” He started to add something, but Mum groaned and sagged against him.
Harry stared at the door, the silence strange. He checked the clock—two more hours before school. He folded the sofa bed, picked up scattered things, then headed to the kitchen. His dad returned as Harry was packing his bag.
“Well? She had it?”
“Not yet. They wouldn’t let me in. Make us tea.”
Harry poured a cup, slapped together sandwiches. “Should I go?”
“Yeah. I’ll call when there’s news.”
Harry was late.
“Kinsley graces us at last. Why?” Mr. Harris, maths teacher, arched a brow.
“Mum went to hospital.”
“Ah. Sit down.”
“His mum’s having a baby!” Jake Fletcher crowed. The class snickered. Harry whirled around.
“Quiet! Kinsley, sit. What’s funny about that?”
His dad called during last period.
“Can I go?” Harry raised his hand.
“Bursting? Twenty minutes left—hold it. And put that phone away,” Mrs. Lane said.
“His mum’s in labour!” Jake yelled again, but no one laughed this time.
“Fine, go.”
“Dad?” Harry stepped into the hall.
“A girl! Three kilos! Bloody hell—” Relief crackled down the line.
“Well?” Mrs. Lane asked when he returned.
“All good. A girl,” he said absently.
“Kinsley’s a nappy-changer now!” Jake cackled. The class erupted—just as the bell rang.
Emily caught him outside, falling into step.
“How old’s your mum?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Don’t get me wrong—I’m happy for you. A sister’s brilliant. I’m an only child. My parents didn’t want more…” They walked, talked, and for the first time, Harry felt glad about the baby.
Three days later, Mum came home.
“Proper little beauty,” Dad said, gazing at his daughter.
Harry saw nothing beautiful—just a wrinkled, red-faced thing with a button nose. *Emily’s* the beauty. Then the baby opened her toothless mouth and screeched, face flushing tomato-red. Mum cradled her, shushing. Weird, realising his mum was someone else’s mum now.
“Name?” Dad asked.
“Matilda,” Mum said.
“Sounds like a cat. Kids’ll call her Tilly,” Harry snorted.
“Then Alice. After Gran,” Dad offered.
Life revolved around “little Alice”—nappies, feeds, cries. Harry was ignored except for errands: *Pop to the shop, take out the bins, hang the washing.* He didn’t mind helping.
But when Mum asked him to push the pram while she mopped, he balked. *She* should go—get air—he’d mop.
“No way. What if the lads see me?”
“She’s bundled up. And *you* wrap up—it’s freezing. You’ll catch cold, and she’s too tiny to fight it off.”
Harry circled the estate with the pram, then spotted Emily. Normally, she’d walk right past. Now, she beelined for him.
“Alice! She’s gorgeous.” She fell into step. Neighbours smiled. Harry burned with embarrassment.
That night, Mum sang Alice to sleep. Harry listened, drifting off himself.
But Alice got sick. A fever spiked. Medicine barely touched it. By morning, she was burning up, breathing too fast. Dad called an ambulance.
No one blamed Harry, but guilt gnawed at him. He hid in his room.
“Proper gave us a scare,” Dad said, coming in after Mum and Alice left.
“She’ll be okay?”
“Hope so. Good meds these days…”
Harry hadn’t expected to care. At school, he flubbed answers, scored a D on a test he’d aced before. Coming home, he found Dad kitchen, staring blankly.
“Dad? You sick?”
A long pause.
“Alice is gone.”
Harry thought he’d misheard. Then it hit him.
“So fast… They couldn’t…—” Dad’s voice broke. He buried his face in his hands.
“Dad—” Harry stepped closer, lost for words.
His dad pulled him into a hug. For the first time, Harry saw him cry—and cried himself, like a little kid.
He wished *he’d* died instead.
Mum came back from the hospital a ghost. The flat was silent, dark despite the daylight. Harry’s heart split—pity for Mum, grief for Alice, guilt.
After the funeral, Mum sat by the empty cot for hours. She’d bolt up at night, sure she’d heard Alice crying. Dad barely got her back to bed. Weeks passed. Spring came. Laughter felt gone for good.
“Roads’ll turn to sludge soon. We should take the cot and things to the cottage. Before your mum loses it,” Dad said one Saturday. “I’ll dismantle it—you pack
