He retrieved the first bottle from its storage and an envelope came loose from beneath it, falling towards the floor, but Henry caught it just before it could land.

Henry peered into the gloom at the aged white envelope with a handwritten date in the corner. He frowned, seeing his birth date on the envelope, and looked back at Lily.

‘What is this?’

‘Take a look,’ she said again, with a gentle smile.

Rather than opening the envelope, he placed the first bottle – the label proclaiming it to be of the same vintage year as his birth – on the floor. He gently half prised another bottle, checking the label’s date, then the next and the one after that. Each of the bottles had a similar envelope wedged beneath them. But his mind was on the dates. He hadn’t missed how they were from specific years in his life. His birth, his eighteenth, his twenty-first.

Towards the bottom of the shelves, he could see the distinctive larger shape of sparkling wines and he half feared what they were to represent. With a clenched jaw, he peeled open the envelope in his hand and withdrew a thin sheet of paper covered in his father’s handwriting.

Dear Henry,

Today you were born. It was about as dramatic as one could have imagined, though also completely unimaginable. You’ll know one day what it feels like to hold your firstborn in your arms, God willing. But I was utterly unprepared. As a parent you think that you’ll be the teacher. But today, Henry, you taught me what it was to love completely, wholly, overwhelmingly and unconditionally. And I’m honoured that I get to see the man you will become. I only hope that I can be the father you deserve.

With love,

Your father

Henry’s hands were shaking by the time that he finished reading the letter, his throat was rough and he realized that he must have read it out loud, because the look in Lily’s eyes, the sheen of tears, told him that she knew. That she understood.

He went back to the shelves and crossed to the last few bottles – each had a date from every year of his life, and the last few were from years that were still yet to happen. Henry shivered. All this time, he’d thought his father had forgotten him, or rejected him like a dirty secret or source of embarrassment and shame. He’d thought his father had exiled him from his mind as much as from his estate. But here was evidence to the contrary. That each and every year his father had bottled a wine for him and written him a letter.

He peered beneath the sparkling wines, not wanting to disturb the precious alcohol. The envelopes bore the headings, ‘On your wedding day’, ‘On the birth of your first child’, second and even a third. His father had imagined him having three children?