His soft call. She sits in the dusk of her empty room and imagines her mother getting up from whatever she is doing, watching telly most probably, feet up on the low table in front of her. Wearing the slippers Hannah bought for her from the catalog last Christmas. Here she comes, shuffling into the hall, shooing the dog away from the little armchair by the telephone table.

“Hannah, love.”

The soft vowels.

“Hiya, Mum. Did I disturb you?”

“No, love. Not at all. Just catching up with a bit of Strictly. Hang on a sec, I’ll just get comfy.” She can hear her mother settle further into the chair. “How’re you? Have you had the thingy?”

“Yes.”

“And how did it go?”

“Well, I think.”

She doesn’t go into details. Her mother’s concept of IVF is hazy at best.

“Oh, that’s good, love. You know I saw Dot the other day? Her daughter’s little one is one now.” The talismanic properties of Dot and her daughter’s daughter—conceived by IVF and born last year—are strong. They were wheeled out last Christmas, all three generations, invited over for an awkward cup of tea.

“One?” says Hannah into the darkness. “That went quickly.”

“Such a cutie.”

“How’s Jim?” she asks.

“Good. They’ve closed on the house. They’re moving in a week or so. Just in time for the birth.”

“Hayley must be getting close now.”

“She is. She’s big all right. You’ll be an aunty soon.”

“That’s good,” says Hannah.

“How’s work?”

“Quiet.”

“Well, that’s a blessing. And Nathan?”

“He’s . . . good.”

“Well, that’s grand, love.”

She closes her eyes. She wants to be up in Manchester in her parents’ little living room, watching Strictly with her mum with the gas fire turned up too high.

“I’ll pray for you, love,” her mum says.

“Thanks,” says Hannah. She never knows what to say in response to this.

Thanks, Mum, but there’s no such thing as God.

“I’d better go. Let you get back to your TV.”

“All right. If you’re sure?”

“Nathan’s got something on the stove,” she lies.

“Oh good, well, you give him our love, won’t you.”

“I will. Bye, Mum. Love you.”

“Love you too, Han.”

THE NEXT DAY, early, there is a call from the hospital.

“The embryologist would like to do the transfer today.”

She thanks them, and goes into the bathroom where Nathan is brushing his teeth.

“They want to do it today.”

He spits, rinses his mouth. “Did they say anything else?”

“It was just a receptionist. They must not look good. The others. The embryos.”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Han. It’s just—science.”

She fiddles with a bit of toilet paper.

“Hey. Hey, Han.” His hand on hers.