“Big rooms.”
“There’s a park with a playground nearby,” Rory says.
“Aidan’s not big enough for a playground,” Niamh whispers. “Maybe he’ll like to play there in a few years.”
I put the bottle on the table, drape a muslin cloth over my shoulder, and start to wind Aidan.
“You’re good with him,” Niamh says. “You don’t look like a first-time dad.”
“I feel like one. I am one. I’m just doing my best.”
She lifts her chin. “Your best is good enough.”
“So’s yours.”
She sucks in a breath and turns her head sharply. “I thought you could have him for another week. Would that be okay?”
I look at Rory. “It’s fine with me and my housemates,” he says. “If that’s what you both want.”
Aidan lets out a huge burp, which makes half a dozen customers stare at us in horror. Once they realise it was a baby, there are lots of oohs and aahs.
“Do you want to hold him?” I ask Niamh.
She shakes her head. Tears fill her eyes.
“Have you spoken to someone? A doctor?”
“No.”
“You should. There’s no shame in admitting you need help.”
“I don’t need help,” she snaps.
“Niamh.”
“What would you know about it?” she hisses. “You’ve got everything together.”
“Maybe I have now, but you know I haven’t always.”
“I know. I’m sorry. How long has it been now?”
“Since I had a drink?”
She nods.
“Five years.”
Niamh’s expression softens. “You’ve done so well, Callan.”
“Only because I got help. I couldn’t have got sober on my own.”
“I’m not drinking.”
“I never said you were.” I take a deep breath. “I’m worried you might have postnatal depression.”
She dips her chin.
“Please consider talking to your doctor. Don’t let whatever you’re feeling fester and get worse. It won’t help.”
