At first, Harry thought his mum had simply put on a bit of weight. Though it was odd—her waist had rounded out, but the rest of her stayed the same. He felt awkward asking, worried she might take offence. His dad stayed quiet, gazing at her fondly, so Harry pretended not to notice either.
But soon, her belly grew unmistakably larger. One day, passing his parents’ room, Harry caught his dad stroking her stomach, whispering something tenderly while she smiled. The sight made him uncomfortable, and he hurried away.
“Mum’s expecting,” Harry realised suddenly. The thought shocked him more than surprised him. His mum was still pretty—better-looking than most of his classmates’ mums—but the idea of her being pregnant at her age made him cringe. He knew where babies came from, of course, but imagining his parents doing *that* was another matter entirely.
“Dad… is Mum having a baby?” he finally asked one evening, finding it easier to broach the subject with him.
“Yeah. She’s always wanted a girl. I suppose it’s silly to ask, but—brother or sister, what would you prefer?”
“Isn’t she a bit old for that?”
“Old? She’s only thirty-six. And I’m forty-one. Got a problem with it?”
“Did anyone ask *me*?” Harry snapped. His dad studied him carefully.
“I hope you’re grown-up enough to understand. Your mum’s wanted a daughter for years. When you were born, we were barely scraping by in a rented flat. She stayed home with you while I worked, and money was tight. We couldn’t think of another child. Then your gran passed, left us her house—remember her?”
Harry shrugged.
“We fixed it up, moved in. When you were older and your mum went back to work, things got easier. I bought the car. We kept putting off having a girl, saying there was time. Then suddenly… it just didn’t happen. And now, when we’d given up hope—”
“Hope it’s a girl, then. Like Mum wants. Just… try not to upset her, yeah? Think before you say something harsh. If you’re bothered, talk to me. Deal?”
“Yeah, got it.”
Later, they learned it *was* a girl. Pink baby clothes appeared around the house—tiny, doll-like. A cot was set up. His mum often zoned out mid-conversation, as if listening to something inside herself. His dad would ask, tense, if she was alright, and Harry would catch his worry.
Personally, he couldn’t care less about the baby—especially a sister. Why would he want nappies and drool? All he cared about was Emily Carter. If his parents wanted another kid, fine. Less attention on him. At least there was *some* upside.
“Is it dangerous? Her age, I mean,” Harry asked.
“There’s always risk. Of course, it’s harder for her now than when she had you—she was thirteen years younger then. But we’re not in the middle of nowhere. We’ve got good hospitals, doctors… It’ll be fine,” his dad sighed.
“When’s it due?”
“Two months.”
But she went into labour a month early. Harry woke to noise—groans, frantic footsteps. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he shuffled to his parents’ room. His mum sat on the crumpled bed, hands on her back, rocking with muffled whimpers. His dad paced, grabbing things in a panic.
“Don’t forget the documents,” his mum forced out, eyes shut.
“Mum?” Harry called, now wide awake.
“Sorry we woke you. Where’s that ambulance?” His dad’s question was answered by the doorbell. Two paramedics hurried in, firing off questions—*how long between contractions? Waters broken?*—while his mum grimaced through another wave. Unnoticed, Harry slipped away.
By the time he returned dressed, his parents were leaving. His mum shuffled out in slippers and a dressing gown. His dad glanced back.
“I’ll be back soon. Tidy up a bit.” He hesitated, but his mum gasped and gripped his arm.
Harry stood frozen, listening to the unnatural quiet. Then he checked the clock—two more hours before school. He straightened the sofa, gathered stray items, and headed to the kitchen. His dad returned as Harry was packing his bag.
“Well? Did she have it?” Harry searched his face.
“Not yet. They wouldn’t let me stay. Make us some tea.”
Harry obeyed, buttering toast while his dad gulped his drink.
“Should I go?”
“Yeah. I’ll call when there’s news.”
Harry was late to school.
“Kinsley honours us with his presence. Why the delay?” the maths teacher drawled.
“Mum was taken to hospital.”
“Ah. Sit down.”
“His mum’s having a baby!” someone jeered. Laughter erupted. Harry spun around, fists clenched.
“Enough! Kinsley, sit. What’s so funny?”
His dad called during last period.
“Can I go?” Harry raised his hand.
“Can’t it wait? Twenty minutes left. And put that phone away,” the English teacher said.
“His mum’s in labour!” the same boy shouted. This time, no one laughed.
“Go on, then.”
“Well?” Harry asked in the hallway.
“A girl! Three kilos! Bloody hell—” His dad’s relieved laugh crackled down the line.
“Well?” the teacher asked when he returned.
“All good. A girl,” Harry muttered.
“Kinsley’s a nanny now!” The class erupted again, drowning out the bell.
Emily caught up with him outside.
“How old’s your mum?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Don’t get me wrong—I’m happy for you. A sister’s lovely. I’m an only child. My parents didn’t want more…” They walked and talked, and for the first time, Harry felt glad about his sister.
Three days later, his mum came home.
“Beautiful,” his dad murmured, gazing at the baby. Harry saw nothing beautiful—just a tiny, wrinkled thing with a red face, rosebud lips, and a button nose. Emily was his idea of beauty. Then the baby opened her toothless mouth and wailed, turning tomato-red. His mum scooped her up, shushing gently. It was strange, realising his mum was someone else’s mum now.
“What’ll we call her?” his dad asked.
“Violet,” his mum said.
“Sounds posh. Kids’ll tease her,” Harry scoffed.
“Then Lily, after your gran,” his dad offered.
Life revolved around Lily—feeding, changing, soothing. Harry was ignored except for errands: *grab shopping, take out bins, hang the laundry*. He didn’t mind.
But when his mum asked him to push the pram while she mopped, he balked. *She* should go—fresh air would do *her* good. He’d mop.
“No way. What if the lads see me?”
“She’s dressed—she’ll overheat. And bundle up; it’s freezing. If you catch cold, you could pass it to Lily. She’s too little to fight it off.”
Grumbling, Harry wheeled the pram around the block—until Emily appeared. Normally, she’d pretend not to see him. Now, she beelined over.
“Lily! She’s gorgeous.” She walked beside him, cooing. Neighbours smiled; Harry wanted to vanish.
That night, his mum sang Lily to sleep. Harry listened, drifting off himself.
Then Lily fell ill. A fever spiked overnight. Medicine barely touched it. His parents took turns holding her. By morning, her breathing turned ragged. His dad called an ambulance.
No one blamed Harry, but guilt gnawed at him. He hid in his room.
“Gave us a scare,” his dad said, entering after the ambulance left.
“Will she be okay?”
“Hope so. Good doctors, medicine these days…”
Harry hadn’t expected to care so much. At school, he flubbed answers, scored a D despite knowing the material. Returning home, he found his dad staring blankly at the kitchen wall. Dread coiled in his chest.
“Dad… why’re you home? Sick?”
A long silence.
“Lily’s gone.”
Harry thought he’d misheard—then the words sank in.
“So fast… They couldn’t…” His dad buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.
“Dad—” Harry reached out, lost for words. His dad pulled him close, and Harry saw him cry for the first time. He wept too, like a child.
He wished *he* could’ve died instead. Then his mum returned—a ghost of herself. The flat felt hollow, though sunlight streamed outside. Harry’s heart ached for her, for Lily, for his own guilt.
After the funeral, his mum sat for hours by the empty cot. She’d bolt up at night, certain
