11
“What’s going on?” Tony slurs; his posture unbalanced, his eyes glazed over. “What’s Freya doing in our bedroom?”
Mum has Ben in her arms, his body wrapped tightly in a white sheet. “She’s been helping me,” she whispers.
“With what?”
Mum smiles, motioning with her eyes for him to look at the baby.
Squinting, Tony staggers closer to the bed. “What’s that?”
Her smile melts. “It’s your son. It’s Ben.”
Leaning over the bed, he glares at the sleeping baby. “Is this meant to be a joke?”
“It’s not a joke,” I whisper, getting up off the chair. “Mum went into early labour while you were in the pub.”
Tony lets out a drunken snigger. “Early labour? She’s only eight weeks pregnant.”
She turns the baby to show Tony. “See for yourself.”
He gasps in fright, stepping away from the bed. “What
