When the baby has finally finished the bottle, I lift him and hold him over my shoulder to burp him. After only a few pats, he gives the most satisfying belch and then vomits down my back. “Charming. Thanks for that.”

I put him back down on the couch and he’s asleep almost immediately. I kiss his forehead, which smells of milk and impossible dreams that finally come true. A hiccupping sob from the bathroom brings me back to reality. I know the sound is amplified by the tiles and bathwater, but it’s still alarming. Good grief, it seems I have two babies I need to look after.

Knocking on the bathroom door, I call out, “Dee?”

“Go away.”

She sounds like she has a cold, so I can only imagine the amount of crying she’s done. This can’t be about not turning the baby in last night. Something else must be wrong. “Are you okay?”

“Leave me alone.”

Thinking back to my own misadventures a few weeks ago, I know the bathroom is a good place to make bad decisions. I had no intention of going through with my staged suicide attempt, but I have absolutely no idea what’s going through my sister’s head. She’s more a stranger to me now than she ever was.

“I’m coming in, okay?” She says something but I can’t make out what it is. The handle turns in my hand. At least she didn’t lock herself in.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dee is in the process of climbing out of the bath, one foot on the bath mat and the other still in the water. Her face is a picture of dismay.

“Just checking you’re okay. Sounds like the world is ending in here.”

“God, Ruth,” she mutters as she tries reaching for the towel draped over the toilet lid, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen what she doesn’t want me to see.

My sister has jagged white stretch marks that crisscross her stomach and breasts. My breath catches. I know those marks. They’re rites of passage I’ve coveted all my life. It doesn’t seem possible and yet it has to be. “Who . . . when . . .” I have so many questions but I’m not able to get any of them out in a way that makes sense.

Dee yanks the towel and wraps it around herself as though it’s armor that can protect her.

“You’re a mother?” I ask. She doesn’t answer but her face crumples in response. “Oh my God, you are. You had a baby.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Daniel.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Delilah

11 May 1994

Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa