Tom

Tom sat on the couch, his legs flat on the cushions. Joanna was lying with her head on his knees. He looked down at her and held out a finger. She grabbed it and squeezed. Her grip was surprisingly tight; he’d heard from another dad that babies’ grips were strong enough that they could hang from a bar.

Try that in your CrossFit gym for a minute or two, the dad, who was squat and heavily built and had tattoos all up one arm, had said. We’re all weaker than babies.

Joanna smiled, her eyes wide. They were an unusual grey-green colour; she’d inherited them from Alice. It was amazing to him how much he loved her, how strong the instinct to take care of her was. The lack of sleep and loss of free time melted away in moments like this, moments when he sat, peacefully, with his beautiful baby daughter.

A daughter who had been a surprise. They’d talked about having kids, but not for a few more years. They were both twenty-nine now – Alice had been twenty-eight when Jo was born – which was young, at least by the standards of their friends. Alice was on the pill, but had somehow mixed up some dates when they were on holiday in Greece, and nature had taken its course. It was unlike her; she was normally very organized, and he could tell that she was more annoyed about the fact that she had messed up than that she had got pregnant.

It had been a happy accident, though. There was no question they would keep the baby. They had always wanted kids; all that had changed was the timing.

The doorbell rang and he glanced at his watch. It was a vintage Omega his dad had given him when he was twenty-one. At first he had thought it was old-fashioned and only worn it out of a sense of duty, but it had grown on him over the years and it was now his most treasured possession. It was only going to increase in sentimental value, as his father, still only sixty-three, had late-stage bladder cancer, which left him with no more than a year to live.

At least his dad had met Jo. That was another reason to be glad Alice had made the mistake with her pills. If they’d waited, his dad would never have met his first grandchild. Tom’s younger brother, Roland, was unlikely to have kids any time soon; he was unlikely to do much of anything. He’d had a hard few years; after dropping out of music college halfway through his first year he’d developed a punishing drug habit. He’d always smoked weed and taken various pills, but at some point he’d started taking heroin, which had pushed him into a deep, dark hole.