**Other People’s Children**
At first, Harry thought Mum had simply put on weight. Oddly, though—only her waist had rounded out, while the rest of her stayed the same. It felt awkward to ask; she might take offence. Dad just watched her with a soft look in his eyes, so Harry pretended not to notice.
But soon, her belly was unmistakably growing. Once, passing his parents’ bedroom, Harry glimpsed Dad stroking Mum’s stomach, murmuring something tenderly while she smiled, content. The sight made him flush, and he hurried away.
*Mum’s having a baby.* The realisation shocked more than surprised him. Mum was beautiful—more so than most of his classmates’ mums—but the idea of her being pregnant at her age felt wrong. He knew where babies came from, of course, but imagining *his parents* doing *that* was unbearable. They were *his* mum and dad, for heaven’s sake.
“Dad… is Mum expecting?” he finally asked one day. For some reason, it was easier to talk to Dad about it.
“Yes. She’s always wanted a little girl. Though I suppose it’s silly to ask what *you* want—a brother or sister?”
“Do people even have kids at her age?”
“What age? She’s thirty-six, I’m forty-one. Got a problem with that?”
“Did anyone ask *me*?” Harry snapped.
Dad studied him carefully. “You’re old enough to understand. Mum wanted a girl when you were born, but we were renting then. I was the only one working, and money was tight. So we waited. Then Gran passed, left us her flat—remember her?”
Harry shrugged.
“We fixed it up, moved in. Once you were older and Mum went back to work, things got easier—I even bought my first car. We kept putting off another child, saying we had time. Then… well, it just didn’t happen. Until now, when we’d given up hope…”
“Hope it’s a girl, then, like Mum wants. But Harry—she’s young, but not *that* young. So try not to upset her, yeah? Think before you say something sharp. And if anything’s bothering you, talk to *me*. Understood?”
“Yeah, got it.”
Later, they found out it *was* a girl. Pink baby things started appearing around the house—tiny, doll-like. A cot was set up. Mum often drifted off mid-conversation, lost in thought, as if listening to something inside her. Dad would ask anxiously if she was all right, and Harry would catch his worry.
Personally, he couldn’t care less about the baby—especially a *sister*. What did he want with nappies and drool? All he cared about was Lucy Fairfax. If his parents wanted another kid, fine. Less attention on him, at least.
“Is it dangerous? For Mum, I mean, at her age?”
“There’s always risk. Of course it’s 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,” Dad added tiredly.
“When’s it due?”
“Two months.”
But Mum went into labour early. A groan and frantic shuffling woke Harry. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he stumbled to their room. Mum sat on the crumpled bed, hands on her lower back, swaying like a pendulum. Dad dashed about, grabbing things.
“Don’t forget the folder with the documents,” Mum managed, eyes squeezed shut.
“Mum?” Harry’s sleepiness vanished, replaced by nervous energy.
“Sorry we woke you. Where’s that *ambulance*?” Dad muttered.
As if answering, the doorbell rang. Two paramedics hurried in, firing off questions—*How far apart are the contractions? Waters broken?*—while another wave of pain silenced Mum. Harry slipped out unnoticed.
By the time he returned, dressed, Mum and Dad were leaving. Still in her dressing gown and slippers, Mum clung to Dad’s arm in the doorway.
“I’ll be back soon. Tidy up here,” Dad said, then Mum whimpered, and they were gone.
Harry stared at the door, unnerved by the sudden quiet. He checked the time—two more hours until school. After straightening the mess, he headed to the kitchen.
Dad returned as Harry was packing his bag. “Well? Did she…?”
“Not yet. They wouldn’t let me in. Pour us some tea?”
Harry set down a cuppa and slapped together sandwiches. “Should I go?”
“Go. I’ll call with news.”
He was late.
“Ah, *Harry* graces us at last. Reason?” Mr. Carter, maths, arched a brow.
“Had to call an ambulance for Mum.”
“Right. Sit down.”
“His mum’s in *labour*!” someone shouted. Laughter. Harry whirled around.
“Quiet! Harry, *sit*,” Mr. Carter snapped. “What’s funny about that?”
Dad rang during last period.
“Can I step out?” Harry raised his hand.
“Bursting? Twenty minutes left—hold it. And put your phone *away*,” Mrs. Greene said.
“His mum’s *having a baby*!” the same voice crowed. No one laughed this time.
“Fine, go.”
In the corridor, Harry answered. “Yeah, Dad?”
“It’s a girl! Three kilos! Bloody hell—” Relief flooded Dad’s voice.
“Well?” Mrs. Greene asked when he returned.
“All good. A girl,” Harry said mechanically.
“Harry’s a *babysitter* now!” More laughter, drowning out the bell.
Lucy caught him outside. “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…” They walked, talking, and for the first time, Harry felt a flicker of gladness about the baby.
Mum came home three days later.
“Look at her,” Dad whispered, gazing at the baby.
Harry saw nothing beautiful—just a tiny, wrinkled thing with a red face, rosebud lips, and a button nose. Lucy was beautiful. Then the baby opened her toothless mouth and *screeched*, turning beetroot red. Mum cradled her, shushing. Strange, realising his mum was now someone else’s mum too.
“What’ll we call her?” Dad asked.
“Matilda,” Mum said.
“Sounds like a *cat*,” Harry muttered.
“Then Alice. After Gran,” Dad offered.
Life revolved around “little Alice.” Harry was ignored except for errands—groceries, laundry—which he didn’t mind. But when Mum asked him to push the pram while she mopped, he balked.
“*No.* What if my mates see?”
“She’s bundled up already. And *you* wrap up—it’s freezing. If you catch cold, she could too. Babies that small can’t fight it.”
Grumbling, Harry wheeled the pram around the block—then spotted Lucy. Normally, she’d pretend not to see him. Now, she beelined over.
“*Alice*! She’s *gorgeous*!” Lucy cooed, falling into step beside him. Neighbours smiled; Harry burned with embarrassment.
That night, Mum sang Alice to sleep. Harry listened, then drifted off himself.
But Alice fell ill. A fever spiked overnight. Medicine barely helped. By morning, it soared again; her breathing turned fast and laboured. Dad called an ambulance.
No one blamed Harry, but guilt gnawed at him. He hid in his room.
“Proper nightmare, this,” Dad said, coming in after the ambulance left.
“Will she… be all right?”
“Hope so. Good antibiotics now…”
Harry hadn’t expected to care so much. At school, he fumbled answers, scored a *C* on a test he’d aced before. Returning home, he found Dad staring blankly at the kitchen wall. Fear prickled.
“Dad? You okay?”
A long pause. “Alice is gone.”
Harry thought he’d misheard—until the words sank in.
“It… happened so fast. They couldn’t…” Dad’s voice cracked. He buried his face in his hands.
“Dad—” Harry stepped closer, lost.
Dad pulled him into a hug. For the first time, Harry saw him cry—and then he was sobbing too.
He wished *he* could’ve died instead.
Mum returned from the hospital a ghost of herself. The flat felt hollow, even in daylight. Harry’s heart split—grief for Alice, guilt, pity for Mum.
After the funeral, Mum spent hours by the empty cot. At night, she’d bolt awake, convinced she’d heard Alice crying. A week passed. A month. Then spring came, joylessly.
“Roads aren’t *too* muddy yet. Let’s take the cot and baby things to the cottage—before Mum loses it
