Rory:Congrats. Send a photo if you can.
“Who are you texting?” Niamh asks.
“A friend.” I slip the phone into my pocket.
“A friend?”
I nod.
“A girlfriend?”
“No.”
She narrows her eyes. “Oh, God. It’s your mam. You’ve been texting your mam while I’ve been giving birth to your baby.”
“No.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have been texting Rory, but his messages made me smile and feel less tense. Was it so wrong to seek out some support? It’s not like we were messaging each other constantly. There were maybe a dozen texts back and forth over several hours. The rest of the time, Niamh was my sole focus.
The baby pops off Niamh’s nipple and smacks his lips together. He looks content.
“Do you want to hold him?” Niamh asks.
“Yes, please.”
I’m not sure how to hold a baby. My heart is in my mouth as I take him from Niamh and cradle him in my arms.
“Make sure you’re supporting his head and neck,” she says.
I nod and stare at his tiny face. His eyes are closed. His features are wrinkled and squished up, yet he’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I stroke his fine red hair.
“What colour are his eyes?” I ask.
“Blue. For now.”
I frown.
“They might change. His hair might change too.”
“Oh.” I glance at Niamh. “He needs a name.”
She doesn’t reply.
“Did you have anything in mind?” I ask.
“No. I’ll think of something. I’ve got forty-two days to register his birth.”
“Can I come with you when you do?”
“Of course. You’re his dad. But will you still be here?”
My stomach sinks. I have to go back to Dublin at the weekend, so I’m there for work on Monday. It’s already the early hours of Thursday morning which means, at best, that I have two days with my son.
“I’ll come back.”
“I thought you couldn’t take more time off.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
