**Diary Entry**
At first, Henry thought his mum had simply put on a bit of weight. Oddly though—only around her waist. The rest of her looked the same. Asking felt awkward. What if she took offence? Dad stayed quiet, watching her with that soft look in his eyes, so Henry pretended not to notice.
But soon, the belly was undeniably bigger. One evening, passing his parents’ room, he caught Dad stroking Mum’s stomach, whispering something tender. She smiled—content, serene. Heat rushed to his face. He hurried away before they saw him.
*Mum’s having a baby.* The realisation hit hard. Not so much a surprise as a shock. Sure, Mum was pretty—younger-looking than most of his classmates’ mums—but at her age? The idea made him squirm. He knew where babies came from, had pieced it together ages ago, but imagining *his parents* doing… *that*? No. Just—no.
“Dad, is Mum pregnant?” he blurted one day. For some reason, talking to Dad was easier.
“Yeah. She’s always wanted a girl. Silly question, but—brother or sister, which would you prefer?”
“People her age don’t *have* babies.”
“Her age? She’s thirty-six. I’m forty-one. Got a problem with it?”
“Did anyone *ask* me?” Henry snapped.
Dad studied him.
“You’re old enough to understand. When you were born, we were renting. Mum stayed home, I barely scraped by. We couldn’t afford another. Then Gran passed, left us her flat. Remember her?”
Henry shrugged.
“Things got better. Mum went back to work, I bought the car. We kept saying ‘we’ll try later.’ Then it just… didn’t happen. Until now.” He sighed. “Hope it’s a girl, for Mum’s sake. But either way—mind your tone around her. If you’re upset, talk to *me*. Deal?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Later, they learned it *was* a girl. Pink baby clothes appeared—tiny, doll-like. A cot was assembled. Mum often drifted off mid-conversation, as if listening to something inside. Dad would ask, worried, “Everything alright?” and Henry would catch his anxiety.
Personally? He couldn’t care less. A baby sister? Useless. All he cared about was Emily Whitmore. If his parents wanted another kid, fine. Less nagging for him.
“Is it dangerous? At her age?” he asked once.
“There’s always risk. But we’re not in the middle of nowhere—good hospitals, doctors… She’ll be fine.” Dad sounded tired.
“How long till it’s born?”
“Two months.”
But Mum went into labour early. Henry woke to noise—groans, frantic footsteps. He stumbled to their room. Mum sat hunched on the bed, gripping her lower back, rocking. Dad darted about, shoving things into a bag.
“Don’t forget the documents,” Mum gasped.
“Mum?” Henry’s sleepiness vanished.
“Sorry we woke you. Where’s that *ambulance*?” Dad muttered.
As if summoned, the doorbell rang. Paramedics swept in, firing questions: *How long between contractions? Waters broken?* During a contraction, Dad answered for her.
Ignored, Henry slipped out to dress. By the time he returned, they were leaving—Mum in her dressing gown, slippers. Dad glanced back.
“Tidy up. I’ll be back soon—” Mum gasped, sagging against him.
Henry stared at the closed door, unnerved by the sudden quiet. He checked the clock—two more hours of sleep. He folded the sofa bed, picked up scattered clothes, then went to the kitchen.
Dad returned as Henry was leaving for school.
“Well? Did she have it?” Henry searched his face.
“Not yet. They wouldn’t let me in. Make us tea?”
Henry obeyed. “Should I go?”
“Go. I’ll call with news.”
He was late.
“Ah, *Kingsley* honours us,” his maths teacher drawled. “Reason?”
“Mum went to hospital. Ambulance.”
“Sorry. Sit down.”
“His mum’s *giving birth*!” someone crowed. Laughter erupted. Henry whipped around.
“Quiet! Kingsley, *sit*. What’s so funny?”
Dad called during last period.
“Can I go?” Henry raised his hand.
“Bathroom? Twenty minutes left—put that phone away.”
“His mum’s in *labour*!” the same voice jeered. This time, no one laughed.
“Go,” the teacher sighed.
Outside, Henry answered. “Dad?”
“A girl! Three kilos fifty! God…” Relief crackled through the phone.
Back in class, the teacher arched a brow.
“All good. A girl,” Henry mumbled.
“Kingsley’s a *nanny* now!” The class erupted. The bell drowned them out.
Emily caught up to him outside.
“How old’s your mum?”
“Thirty-six.”
“That’s… I’m happy for you. A sister’s nice. I’m an only child. My parents didn’t want…” They walked, talking, and for the first time, Henry felt a flicker of gladness.
Three days later, Mum came home.
“She’s beautiful,” Dad murmured, gazing at the baby.
Henry saw nothing beautiful—a tiny, wrinkled thing, red-faced, lips a rosebud, nose a button. *Emily* was beautiful. Then the baby screeched, turning tomato-red. Mum scooped her up, shushing. Strange, realising his mum was now someone else’s mum too.
“Name?” Dad asked.
“Olivia,” Mum said.
“Sounds posh. Kids’ll call her *Livvy*,” Henry grumbled.
“Then Charlotte. After Gran.”
Life revolved around “Lottie.” Henry was ignored unless they needed shopping done, laundry hung. He didn’t mind.
But when Mum asked him to push the pram while she mopped, he balked.
“No way. What if my mates see? *You* go. Fresh air’s good for you.”
“She’s bundled up. *You* dress warm—if you get sick, she could catch it. She’s too little.”
Circling the block with the pram, he spotted Emily. Normally, she’d pretend not to see him. Now, she beelined for him.
“Lottie! She’s *adorable*.” She fell into step beside him. Neighbours smiled. Henry burned with embarrassment.
That night, Mum sang lullabies. Henry listened, drifting off.
Then Lottie got sick. A fever spiked at night. Medicine barely helped. By morning, it soared again. She wheezed, breaths rapid. Dad called an ambulance.
No one blamed Henry, but guilt gnawed at him. He hid in his room.
“She’s giving us hell, this one,” Dad said, entering.
“Will she… be okay?”
“Course. Modern medicine, antibiotics…”
Henry hadn’t expected to care. At school, he flubbed answers, scored a D. Coming home, he found Dad staring blankly at the kitchen wall.
“Dad? You sick?”
A long silence. Then—
“Lottie’s gone.”
Henry’s brain stalled.
“So fast… Nothing they could do…” Dad’s voice broke.
“Dad—” Henry stepped closer, lost for words.
Dad pulled him into a hug. Henry felt wetness on his cheeks—his own or Dad’s, he didn’t know.
He wished *he* could’ve died instead. Then Mum came home. A ghost of herself. The flat turned silent, dark despite the sunny day. His heart shattered watching her sit by the empty cot, jolting awake at night, convinced she’d heard cries.
After the funeral, weeks crawled by. Spring came. Happiness felt gone for good.
“Roads are still passable,” Dad said one Saturday. “We’ll take the cot and things to the cottage. Before Mum loses it completely.”
“Mum?”
“At Aunt Valerie’s. She can’t see this.”
Snow still lined the motorway. Sun peeked through grey clouds. *Lottie’ll never see spring*, Henry thought. Tears spilled. He shook with silent sobs.
Ahead, cars clustered. Police. Dad pulled over.
“Wait here.”
Henry followed. A crumpled red car. A lorry driver mumbling, “Just closed my eyes for a second…” An officer held a car seat—inside, a pink bundle. A baby girl, Lottie’s age.
“Parents died on impact. Not a scratch on her,” the officer said.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The baby woke, wailing *just* like Lottie. The officer floundered.
“Give her here. I had a sister…” Henry faltered.
The officer hesitated, then handed her over. Henry cradled her.
