Marjorie was tired all the time and doing her best to get through her workdays trying to keep up with enthusiastic millennials spitballing ideas while battling the urge to wee, vomit, fart or belch. Add to that her new boss’s disgust with her condition. He tried his best to hide it, but maternity leave left him a staff member down for the six months she’d be out. She’d only come through the bloody door; she had not earned the right to leave them in the lurch. It was embarrassing and unprofessional and she found herself quite apologetic about her unexpected fertility. She did her best to compensate, working overtime to ensure she impressed, and she was impressive despite her swollen ankles and afternoon power naps. She didn’t want to lose her perfect job. She didn’t want to lose Davey or the baby or even Juliet, although she was being a bitchy teenager; finally Marjorie had something to lose. It was overwhelming, with the raging hormones and the fears of what if and the tests required to ensure this geriatric mother was giving birth to a healthy child. She aced every test, most of which Davey attended, and every time the result came back he did a little victory dance.

‘A-OK, Marj, A-OK.’

Do you hear that, Rabbit? A-OK. A-OK.

Grace was really supportive; she gave solid advice and was always there to answer questions.

‘I wanted to punch Davey in the face when he said good morning, am I losing it?’

‘No, perfectly natural.’

‘I want to cry all the time, is that normal?’

‘Yip.’

‘I want to have sex and cry and punch Davey in the face all at the same time, is that normal?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

‘Jesus, baking a baby is hard.’

‘This is the easy bit. Wait till you have to hide the knives from yourself. Welcome to motherhood.’

Grace was always a little nuttier than you or me – right, Rabbit?

Oh yeah.