Richard
Mitch descends the stairs carefully, gripping the rail with one hand, a great wad of glossy something-or-others tucked under the other arm.
“Here, Mitch. Let me help you with those.” Although the swell on her stomach is only just visible, and Mitch is by no means ungainly, I think we’re all conscious of her age and the need to pay her extra attention…
A pregnancy she didn’t expect.
The father’s reaction uncertain…
Even if we knew where to find him….
“Thank you, Richard.” She passes me what turns out to be a stack of knitting patterns. Tucking them under my arm, I accompany her down. As we reach the last step, the doorbell rings.
“You get it, Richard. I can manage now.” Mitch takes the patterns, heading toward the kitchen where, from beyond the door, James’, Michael’s and Cha
