But now there’s another baby. A new one. The hot tears rise again.

I hear Dad galumphing back upstairs.

‘Happy birthday to you.’ He comes round my door, singing, his face lit up with candlelight. ‘Happy birthday to you.’

In one hand Dad is holding one of Mum’s scented candles from the mantelpiece so the air smells of waxy jasmine blossom; on his other hand he’s balancing a Mr Kipling French Fancy. He’s kind of got it all wrong and kind of got it all right at the same time. I giggle and wipe my eyes on the corner of my covers.

‘Happy birthday, dear Charlieeeeeee.’ He smiles so wide when he sings the end of my name. ‘Happy birthday to yoooooooooo!’ he hoots.

My lips make the blowing shape and I shut my eyes to make the same secret wish I’ve always wished. But then I have to open them again because I can’t wish my old wish any more. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wished that I could stop being an only child. And now …

I grin at Dad. ‘A brother!’ I say. ‘My brother!’ The words feel all new and strange in my mouth.

‘Yep.’ Dad grins back. He looks all dazed, like he doesn’t quite believe it either.

So I close my eyes and blow out my candle.

Dad bows grandly and presents me with the yellow French Fancy.

‘Thanks.’ I take it and bite off the creamy top bit. ‘The lemon ones are my favourites.’

‘I know. Mine too.’ Dad produces another, slightly dented, French Fancy from his jacket pocket. ‘Cheers!’ We clink our French Fancies together and Dad sits down on my bed.

We munch and listen to the skyful of birdsong. It’s just starting to get light.

‘Your brother wasn’t born today, you know,’ says Dad, staring out of the window. ‘Eleven thirty-two last night in fact.’ Dad puts his arm around me. ‘So you can have your birthday back.’

‘Thanks.’ I look up at him and he gives my shoulder a squeeze; Dad looks tired and happy and crumby. The little balloon of happiness in my chest starts to puff back up again. ‘What’s the baby called?’

‘Dara.’

‘Dara.’ My new brother’s name sounds soft and wispy when I say it; I try it again, this time in a strong voice. ‘Dara!’ Now he sounds like a warrior. ‘Dara. OK.’

I lean into Dad’s hug even though I’m twelve now and probably getting too old for so much soppy cuddling. Then Dad starts to hum quietly; I recognise the tune right away and I sigh: it’s the first song I ever knew – the silly song Dad always used to sing to me at bedtime when I was little. I know what’s coming, but for some reason I don’t tell Dad to be quiet. Sure enough, Dad starts to sway gently, then soft-as-soft he sings:

‘Row, row, row your boat

Off into the night

And if you meet a tiger