We had not thought of a name. She was due in three weeks, and every day my belly grew and grew. The books always said that the last weeks were the worst, and that one had to “rest, stay free from stress, enjoy the last moments of your pregnancy.” I could no longer see my toes. My belly protruded outwards and upwards like a melon, hard and ripe. The baby was now pressing down on my bladder and I would sometimes have preferred to simply stay in the bathroom instead of waddling in and out every fifteen minutes. One night I used an entire roll of toilet paper.

Women stopped me on the street, in the malls. Asians have a morbid fascination with pregnant women, unabashed in giving thoughts or opinions.

Wah, your stomach so high, must be a boy. Got name ah?

So low, must be due soon, huh? Must be girl lah.

Twins ah? So big!

I waddled. I could no longer walk straight. The extra weight had added pressure on my lower spine and I had to resort to acupuncture to ease the pain. I stopped spending time in front of the computer, I stopped using the microwave, I rarely used my handphone. I wanted the baby to be clear of all kinds of rays and radio waves. I read all kinds of do’s and don’ts. I wanted the perfect birth. I wanted the perfect baby.

Miraculously, Papa had started to come around. He started calling me once a week, then once every two days, then once a day. For months, I refused to go to see him, simply because I couldn’t deal with the state of the house. The maid still came to clean and do his laundry but during the rest of the week, piles of plates accumulated on the hallway outside his study, glasses with Milo stains and rings of mould piled up in the sink, unwashed laundry stood almost stiffly to attention, the grass was uncut, the water in the swimming pool resembled tepid tea with loose leaves. I was sure there were frogs spawning in the pool, along with thousands of sacs of squirming mosquito larvae. It depressed me. I had no idea what he did in his room all day, all week, all month. He just read and read. Pored over books on history, religion, theory. Then one day he said this.

Del, I am going to write a book.

Really? Oh Papa, I think that’s a great idea. What’s it about?

History.

Of…?

Well, it’s early days yet…but we shall see.