‘Here we go. Boy and girl – do we have names?’

Aidan’s throat was dry. ‘Connor and Catherine,’ he barely scratched out, before coughing and trying again. ‘Connor and Catherine Walsh.’

Emotion beat at his chest, his shirt clinging to the perspiration that dampened his skin. Although he’d known they were likely to be premature, whenever Aidan had pictured his babies they’d resembled the ones from the adverts for nappies or milk. Ruddy-cheeked and podgy arms.

He gazed in wonder through the plastic dome. Connor and Catherine were tiny. Their skin almost translucent. Downy hair covering thin limbs. Aidan felt a surge of love. A fierce desire to protect them as he counted their miniature fingers and toes.

‘Are they…?’ His questions were stuck to his tongue. Impossible questions with no answers. There were so many things he wanted to know. Are they going to be okay? Happy. Healthy. Live long and fulfilling lives.

‘They need extra help breathing and feeding. Catherine more than Connor. They are also at a greater risk of infection because their immune systems are developing.’

It was terrifying. All of it. Aidan hadn’t realized he was hyperventilating until he was gently led to a chair. Given a paper bag to breathe into. A soothing hand rubbed his back and Aidan wanted to weep. He should be the one doing the comforting, not being comforted. He lowered the bag.

‘I need to get back to my wife. Can I take a picture of the babies?’

‘Of course. Tell her we will take very good care of them. She’ll be brought down in a wheelchair to see for herself soon.’

Aidan took one last, long, lingering look at his children. And it took a superhuman amount of strength to wrench himself away from them.

Lucy was hooked up to a catheter and a drip. His whole family surrounded by tubes and wires. He thought she might be asleep, but although groggy with painkillers, she was alert and agitated. Her hands protectively over the still visible bump of her belly as though the babies were still there.

‘I’ve brought you pictures.’ Aidan settled himself in the chair next to her bed. He pulled his digital camera out of his pocket.

‘The first ones are of Catherine.’

Lucy’s head bent over the screen. Immediately, her hand fluttered to her throat, as a small cry escaped her lips. She lingered over each picture. Zooming in the images. Her fingertips tracing each tiny feature, delicate noses and pouting lips.

‘They’re beautiful.’ Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. Aidan slipped his arm around her and let her rest her head on his shoulder so she couldn’t see his face. She couldn’t see that he was also crying. And if she felt his sorrow dampen her hair, she didn’t say.