What did I do? The question is on my lips as I struggle my way into consciousness, my heart hammering in my chest, my nightshirt stuck to my damp body. The baby snuffles in the cot next to the bed, a faint intake of breath that turns into a squeak. I know cries will follow, and as soon as they do, my body reacts accordingly. Air hisses out from between my teeth as there is a sharp, almost painful tingle in my breasts, and the baby squawks in response, as if he knows.

‘Al?’ Rav nudges me gently, but I close my eyes, pretending I don’t hear him. ‘Allie, the baby. He’s crying.’

I don’t need to put the lamp on. A shaft of moonlight slices through the gap in the curtains and I see the soft curve of the baby’s head, the tiny fists that pump the air as he prepares for a full-on wail. I should get to him before then, it’s not fair for him to cry that hard. I lean over the cot and scoop him up, smelling that already familiar baby scent. I know that if the light were better in here, I would see his dark, almond-shaped eyes screwed tightly shut as he latches on, pain making me bite my lip. He’s only four weeks old but I am cracked and bleeding, something I don’t remember from when I had Mina. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten. I would see the dark, dark hair that covers his tiny skull, hair that no one apart from me was surprised to see. His sallow, olive skin, darker than me, lighter than Rav, a legacy of his Indian grandparents. I am the opposite. So white, so fair you could mistake me for a Viking. Or a milk bottle. There is nothing of me in the baby, he is all Rav.

I pull up my nightshirt and place him carefully at my breast, wincing as he latches on. Squashing down the faint whiff of resentment that rises as Rav lets out a sigh and rolls over, burrowing down under the duvet against the chilly draft that wafts in through the ill-fitting antique windows, I focus on the baby’s head, the dark tufts of hair, the movement of his mouth as he squeaks and sighs contentedly against my skin. He takes his time, drinking greedily and by the time he is finished I am wide awake, my eyes gritty and dry. The baby unlatches and he lolls in my arms drunkenly, not even stirring as I reach over and lay him gently in the cot. Glancing at Rav, who slumbers on oblivious, I slide carefully out of bed, wincing as something inside tugs as I stand. Mina’s birth had been easy, quick, a delightful first labour I was told by my midwife. This time, it wasn’t so easy.