I wondered where it was, that faded photo. I thought of my father and I decided to call him. The thought of his brooding face made me stop after the second ring tone. I needed to be happy. I was going to be a mother and I had to let my sad father go.

It was going to be a girl.

I had met a midwife, Lisa, and together we planned the birth. I had wanted it to be at home, in the bath tub surrounded by music, incense and candles but Lisa, originally from East London, had said that it would be risky, and if there were problems with the birth, there could be serious consequences.

What if the baby is breach? What if you lose too much blood? What if the cord is around the neck? You can’t imagine anticipating certain scenarios, especially since it’s your first baby. If you and Omar were living right next to a hospital, a home birth could be an option, but you’re not, and you know how long ambulances take to get anywhere in KL. If it’s rush-hour traffic, or in the middle of the night, you’ll be in serious trouble. Don’t want you to bleed to death now, do we? We can have a birth plan with no drugs, but you need to be in a medical facility. Let’s think of a home birth for your second child, okay? Del! Listen. Look, women still die in childbirth, it’s not as simple as you think. An unexpected complication could be fatal. Let’s not take the risk, shall we?

Apart from the morning sickness, the pregnancy had been progressing well. I was putting on the right amount of weight, I was healthier than I’d ever been in my life. My face, eyes, teeth, skin. There was a sheen to everything. Like how some film directors used to put Vaseline on the camera lens to soften the image. It felt like that. Omar kept saying that I looked luminous.

I was constantly active; the nesting instinct had kicked in and one night I managed to put together the cot entirely on my own, to Omar’s dismay.

Why didn’t you let me help you?

Because I wanted to do it. I couldn’t sleep and I needed to do something.

I couldn’t help myself. I folded and refolded baby clothes. I rearranged things in the dead of night. Baby wipes here, nappy cream there. Diapers in the corner. I sat in that nursery for hours, imagining the baby in my arms. I had bought a stack of CDs: music that resembled the human heartbeat, music with the gentlest of drums and flutes, whales’ song, Andean pipes, new age Celtic harp, Gregorian chants. I bought them all.

A girl. A baby girl.