**Other People’s Children**
At first, Henry thought Mum had just put on a bit of weight. But it was odd—only her waist had rounded out while the rest of her stayed the same. He didn’t dare ask; she might take offence. Dad said nothing, just gazed at Mum with quiet tenderness, so Henry pretended not to notice either.
Then her belly grew unmistakably bigger. One day, passing their bedroom, Henry glimpsed Dad stroking Mum’s stomach, whispering something sweet. She smiled, content. The sight made him flush with embarrassment, and he hurried away.
“Mum’s pregnant,” he realised. The thought shocked him more than surprised him. Mum was pretty—younger-looking than most of his mates’ mums—but still, the idea of her having a baby at her age felt wrong. He knew where babies came from, of course, but imagining his parents doing *that* was unbearable.
“Dad, is Mum having a baby?” he finally asked one evening, finding it easier to broach with him.
“Yeah. She’s always wanted a girl. Silly question, but—brother or sister, what d’you reckon?”
“Do people even have kids at her age?”
“What 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. We barely scraped by when you were born—rented flat, me working, Mum stuck at home. We waited. Then your nan passed, left us her place. Remember her?”
Henry shrugged.
“We fixed it up, moved in. When you were older, Mum went back to work, money got easier. We kept saying ‘next year’ for a girl, but it never happened. Then, just when we’d given up…”
“Hope it’s a girl, then, like Mum wants. She’s young, but not *that* young. So don’t stress her out—think before you mouth off. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Later, they found out it *was* a girl. Pink baby clothes appeared, doll-sized. A cot was set up. Mum often zoned out, as if listening to something inside her. Dad would ask, worried, if she was alright, and Henry would catch his unease.
Personally, he couldn’t care less about a sibling. Nappies and drool? No thanks. All he cared about was Emily Fletcher. If his parents wanted another kid, fine—less hassle for him.
“Is it dangerous? Her age and all,” he asked once.
“There’s always risk. Harder for her now than with you—thirteen years older. But we’re not in the sticks, are we? Decent hospitals, doctors… She’ll be fine.”
“When’s it due?”
“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, rocking, hands pressed to her back. Dad dashed about, throwing things into a bag.
“Don’t forget the documents,” Mum gasped.
“Mum?” Henry’s sleepiness vanished.
“Sorry, love. Where’s that ambulance?” Dad muttered.
The doorbell answered. Paramedics swept in, firing questions—“Contractions? How far apart?”—while Mum clenched through another. Ignored, Henry slipped out to dress. By the time he returned, they were leaving, Mum in slippers and dressing gown.
“Tidy up. I’ll be back soon,” Dad said, then Mum groaned, sagging against him.
Henry stared at the shut door, the sudden silence. Two hours until school—he could sleep. Instead, he folded the sofa, cleared the mess.
Dad returned as Henry was leaving.
“Well? Did she…?”
“Not yet. They wouldn’t let me in. Tea, please.”
Henry poured it, made toast.
“Should I go?”
“Yeah. I’ll call.”
He was late.
“Decided to grace us, Kershaw?” Mr. Bates, maths, arched a brow.
“Mum went to hospital.”
“Oh. Sit down.”
“His mum’s having a baby!” Fletcher crowed. Laughter erupted. Henry spun, fists clenching.
“Enough! Kershaw, sit. What’s so funny?”
Dad rang during last period.
“Can I go?” Henry raised his hand.
“Bursting? Twenty minutes left,” Mrs. Greene said. “And put that phone away.”
“His mum’s in labour,” Fletcher jeered. This time, no one laughed.
“Go on,” Mrs. Greene sighed.
“Yeah, Dad?” Henry stepped into the corridor.
“A girl! Three kilos! Blimey…” Dad’s voice cracked with relief.
“Well?” Mrs. Greene asked when he re-entered.
“All good. A girl.”
“Kershaw’s a babysitter now!” Fletcher howled. The class erupted as the bell rang.
Emily caught 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.”
Walking with her, Henry felt—for the first time—glad about the baby.
Three days later, Mum came home.
“Beautiful,” Dad murmured, cradling her.
Henry saw nothing beautiful—wrinkled, red, squalling. His beauty standard was Emily. Then the baby screeched, face tomato-red. Mum hushed her, swaying. Strange, realising his mother was someone else’s mum now.
“Name?” Dad asked.
“Matilda,” Mum said.
“Sounds like a cat. Kids’ll call her Tilly,” Henry scoffed.
“Molly, then. After your nan.”
Life revolved around “Molly”—nappies, feeds, cries. Henry was errand-boy: shopping, laundry, bins. He didn’t mind.
But when Mum asked him to push the pram while she mopped, he balked.
“No way! The lads’ll take the mick.”
“She’s bundled up. And *you* wrap up—you’ll catch cold, pass it to her.”
Grumbling, he circled the estate with the pram—then spotted Emily. Normally, she’d ignore him. Now, she beelined over.
“Molly! She’s adorable.” She walked beside him. Neighbours smiled; Henry burned with shame.
That night, Mum sang Molly to sleep. Listening, Henry drifted off too.
Then Molly fell ill. Fever spiked. Medicine barely touched it. Mum and Dad took turns holding her. By morning, her breaths came fast, shallow. An ambulance was called.
No one blamed Henry, but guilt gnawed him. He hid in his room.
“Proper poorly,” Dad said, coming in after they’d left.
“Will she…?”
“Hope so. Good medicines now…”
Henry hadn’t expected to care. At school, he flubbed answers, scored a D despite knowing the material. Returning home, he found Dad staring blankly at the kitchen wall.
“Dad? You ill?”
A long pause.
“Molly’s gone.”
Henry thought he’d misheard. Then the words sank in.
“So fast… Nothing they could do…” Dad’s face crumpled into his hands.
“Dad—” Henry reached out, useless.
Dad pulled him close. Henry had never seen him cry. Now, he sobbed too.
He wished *he* could’ve died instead.
Mum returned, ghostly. The flat, once bright, turned silent and dim. After the funeral, she sat for hours by the empty cot, jolting awake at night, certain she’d heard Molly. Dad barely coaxed her back to bed.
A week. A month. Spring came. Joy felt gone forever.
“Before the roads turn to sludge, let’s take the cot and things to the cottage,” Dad said one Saturday. “I’ll dismantle it; you pack her clothes. Bags are there.”
“Mum?”
“At Aunt Val’s. She shouldn’t see this.”
Snow still lined the motorway. Sun fought through grey clouds. Henry suddenly thought: Molly would never see spring, never squint in sunlight, never hear thunder… Tears came, silent shakes.
Dad pulled over.
“Wait here. Might need help.”
Up ahead—cars, police. A crumpled red vehicle. A lorry driver sat dazed on the step: “Eyes closed for a second…” An officer held a car seat. Inside, a pink bundle. Henry edged closer. A baby girl, Molly’s age, slept peacefully.
“Parents died on impact. Not a scratch on her,” the officer said.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The baby woke, wailing like Molly had. The officer floundered.
“Give her here. I’ve got a sister—” Henry faltered.
The man hesitated, then handed her over. Henry cradled her. She quieted instantly.
“How’d you do that?”
