At first, Henry thought his mother had simply put on a bit of weight—though in a peculiar way. Her waist had rounded out, but the rest of her remained unchanged. It felt awkward to ask, in case she took offense. His father said nothing, gazing at her with tenderness, so Henry pretended not to notice either.
But soon, her belly undeniably grew. One evening, passing his parents’ room, Henry caught sight of his father gently stroking her stomach, whispering something affectionate. She smiled, content. The sight made him uneasy, and he hurried away.
“She’s expecting a baby,” Henry realized with a jolt. The thought shocked him more than surprised him. His mother was lovely, far younger-looking than most of his classmates’ mums, but the idea of her being pregnant at her age unsettled him. He knew where babies came from, of course, but imagining his parents—his own mum and dad—doing *that* was unthinkable.
“Dad, is Mum having a baby?” he finally asked one day. For some reason, speaking to his father felt easier.
“Yes. She’s always wanted a little girl. Though I suppose it’s silly to ask if you’d prefer a brother or sister.”
“At her age?”
“What do you mean? She’s only thirty-six. I’m forty-one. You’re not against it, are you?”
“Did anyone ask *me*?” Henry snapped. His father studied him carefully.
“I hope you’re old enough to understand. Your mum’s wanted a daughter for years. When you were born, we lived in rented digs. She stayed home with you while I worked—money was tight. We decided to wait. Then your gran passed, and we got her flat. Remember her?”
Henry shrugged.
“We fixed the place up, moved in. Once you were older and Mum went back to work, things got easier. I bought the car. We kept putting off a daughter, saying there’d be time. Then it just… didn’t happen. And now, when we’d given up hope…”
“I hope it’s a girl, then. Just… try not to upset her, alright? Think before you speak. If something’s bothering you, talk to *me*. Agreed?”
“Yeah, got it, Dad.”
Later, they learned it *was* a girl. Pink baby clothes began appearing around the house—tiny, doll-like. A cot was set up. Mum often drifted out of conversations, lost in thought, as if listening to something inside herself. Dad would ask anxiously if she was alright, and Henry would catch his worry.
Personally, he couldn’t care less about a sibling. What did he want with nappies and dribble? All *he* cared about was Emily Whitaker. If his parents wanted another kid, fine. Less fuss over *him*. At least there was that.
“Is it dangerous? At her age?”
“There’s always risk. Of course, it’s harder now than when she had you—thirteen years younger then. But we’re not in the middle of nowhere. We’ve proper hospitals here. It’ll be alright,” Dad added wearily.
“When’s it due?”
“Two months.”
But Mum went into labour a month early. Henry woke to muffled groans and frantic movement next door. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he shuffled to their room. Mum sat hunched on the bed, gripping her lower back, rocking like a pendulum. Dad darted about, gathering things.
“Don’t forget the folder with the papers,” Mum managed, eyes squeezed shut.
“Mum?” Henry’s sleepiness vanished, replaced by the shared tension in the room.
“Sorry, love. We woke you. Where’s that ambulance?” Dad muttered, more to himself than anyone.
As if answering, the doorbell rang. Dad bolted to answer it. Two paramedics swept in, firing questions: *How long between contractions? Waters broken?* When another pain seized Mum, Dad answered for her. Ignored, Henry slipped out. By the time he returned dressed, they were leaving—Mum in her dressing gown, slippers. Dad glanced back.
“I’ll be back soon. Tidy up here.” He faltered as Mum gasped, sagging against him.
Henry stood frozen, staring at the door, the silence pressing in. Then he checked the clock. Two more hours before school. He folded the sofa bed, picked up scattered things, and went to the kitchen. Dad returned as Henry was packing his bag.
“Well? Did she have it?” Henry searched his face.
“Not yet. They wouldn’t let me in. Pour us some tea?”
Henry did, buttering toast while Dad gulped his tea.
“Should I go?”
“Go on. I’ll ring when there’s news.”
Henry was late.
“Ah, Mr. Harris graces us at last. Why the delay?” barked the maths teacher.
“Mum went to hospital. Ambulance.”
“Apologies. Take your seat.”
“His mum’s having a baby!” someone crowed. Laughter rippled. Henry spun, jaw tight.
“Quiet! Harris, *sit*. What’s so funny?”
Dad called during last period.
“Can I step out?” Henry raised his hand.
“Can’t it wait? Twenty minutes left. And put that phone *away*,” the English teacher snapped.
“His mum’s in labour!” the same voice chimed. No one laughed this time.
“Go on, then,” she relented.
“Well, Dad?” Henry asked in the corridor.
“A girl! Three kilos, a hundred grams. Blimey,” Dad exhaled down the line.
Back in class, the teacher arched a brow.
“All good. A girl,” Henry mumbled.
“Harris is a babysitter now!” Cue the uproar, drowning the bell.
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 nice. I’m an only child. My parents didn’t want more…” They talked, and for the first time, Henry felt a flicker of gladness about the baby.
Three days later, Mum came home.
“Look at her!” Dad cooed.
Henry saw nothing beautiful—just a tiny, crumpled thing with a red face, rosebud mouth, button nose. Emily was his idea of pretty. Then the baby opened her toothless maw and shrieked, turning tomato-red. Mum scooped her up, rocking, shushing. Strange, realizing his mother was someone else’s mum now.
“What’ll we call her?” Dad asked.
“Violet,” Mum said.
“Sounds like a cat’s name. Kids’ll call her Vi,” Henry snorted.
“Then Lily. After your gran,” Dad offered.
Life revolved around “Lily-bug,” as Mum called her. Henry was barely noticed—just asked to nip to the shops, take out bins, hang laundry. He didn’t mind.
But when Mum asked him to push the pram while she mopped, he balked. *She* should go—get some air. *He’d* mop.
“No way. What if the lads see me?”
“She’s bundled up. And *you* wrap up—it’s bitter out. If you catch cold, you’ll pass it to her. She’s too little to fight it,” Mum said.
Henry circled the block with the pram, mortified, until Emily appeared. Normally she’d pretend not to see him. Now she beelined over.
“Lily! She’s gorgeous.” She walked with him. Neighbours smiled. Henry burned with embarrassment.
That night, Mum sang Lily to sleep. Henry listened, drifting off himself.
Then Lily fell ill. A fever spiked overnight. Medicine barely touched it. Mum and Dad took turns holding her. By morning, her breathing turned ragged. Dad called an ambulance.
No one blamed Henry, but guilt gnawed at him. He hid in his room.
“She gave us a proper scare,” Dad said, coming in after the ambulance left.
“Will she be alright?” Henry whispered.
“Hope so. Modern medicine, antibiotics…”
Henry hadn’t expected to care so much. At school, he flubbed answers, scored a C on a test he knew cold. Coming home, he found Dad staring blankly at the kitchen wall. Dread prickled.
“Dad? You sick?”
A long silence. Then: “Our Lily’s gone.”
Henry thought he’d misheard. Then it sank in.
“It happened so fast… Nothing they could do…” Dad buried his face in his hands, voice breaking.
“Dad—” Henry stepped closer, lost for words.
Dad pulled him into a hug. Henry had never seen him cry before. He wept too, like a child.
He wished *he* could vanish. Why Lily, not him? Mum returned from hospital a shadow of herself. The flat felt silent, dark even in daylight. Henry’s heart ached for her, for Lily, for his own helpless guilt.
After the funeral, Mum sat for hours by the empty cot. She’d bolt up at night, certain she’d heard Lily crying.
