“I went down. To get food,” said Lauren. She was cross-legged in the middle of the bed, feeding Morgan while Riley kicked his legs in the Moses basket. “Why do you ask?”

She felt defensive, but even Lauren could see that the situation was extreme. She’d buried herself like a worm at the centre of this vortex of items: dirty nappies in bags, baby clothes, wipes, food packets, mugs, bedding, DVDs, toys. Strewn didn’t cover it adequately; it was as if a small tornado had passed through. But, the babies were clean, fed, happy. Wasn’t that the only important thing?

“You can’t stay in bed all day, Lauren. It’s not healthy.” Patrick uncrossed his arms and put his fists on his hips.

“It’s comfier in here,” she said, trying not to whine. “I can feed them both at once, without worrying if someone will look in the window and see me naked.”

Patrick looked sceptical. “You could still do that downstairs. Just draw the curtains.”

“I could,” said Lauren, “but I like them open. I like the light.”

Baby Morgan dropped off the breast, exposing Lauren’s large nipple. It pointed downwards, a long pink teat, wet and sucked out of shape. Patrick shifted his eyes away, to Riley, lying in the Moses basket, curling his fingers into balls and shrieking intermittently. The shrieks were alarmingly loud, but it was a happy sound.

“Why is he doing that?” said Patrick. He came further into the room and knelt next to the basket, drawing his face close to the baby’s. As she watched, they took each other in, father and son inspecting each other slowly and carefully. The two had matching frowns. Then Riley screwed his eyes shut and shrieked again, flapping his hands onto Patrick’s head and grabbing a handful of hair.

Patrick shouted, “Ow, get off me,” and tried to dig his great finger into the baby’s fist to make it release. “Why won’t he let go?”

Laughter bubbled up in Lauren and she tried not to let it out. The extrication took a while, but Patrick finally pulled his head away, leaving long strands of gold behind in Riley’s hand.

“The little blighter,” said Patrick. “That really hurt.”

Lauren thought of the labour pains. Her smile died on her face.

“Did it.”

She watched Patrick rubbing at his head through his curls, throwing aggrieved glances in the direction of the tiny baby, who shrieked, happily. She said, “You know, he wasn’t doing it on purpose.”

“Hmm,” said Patrick. “I guess.”

“They can make fists at this age, but they can’t release them at will. It’s a developmental thing.”

He didn’t seem convinced, just grimaced doubtfully, as if he thought she was making it up.