in his sleep and drowsily inhale the scent of his hair, the way I sometimes do with Theo.
I hover my finger over the post and press LIKE.
* * *
—
THAT EVENING I SHOW Pete. “There but for the grace of God.”
He studies the picture. “Sweet, isn’t he?”
“It made me cry at work.”
“Really?” He seems surprised.
“You feel it, too, don’t you?” I press. “When you look at that picture, you must feel sorry for him.”
Pete frowns. “I see a cute little boy, that’s all.”
“But do you think they love him? Really love him, I mean, the way we love Theo? Or do you think his…” I hesitate. “His problems make it different?”
“Mads, of course they love him,” Pete says patiently. “After all, if the switch had never happened and David was part of our family, we’d love him, wouldn’t we? Why should the Lamberts be any different? Besides, you heard what Lucy said—sometimes the bond is even stronger when they need you more.”
“Hmm,” I say. I wonder if Pete is being completely honest with me, or if my feelings about David are a can of worms he’d rather not open, in case everything gets feminine and messy.
As I take the iPad back, I see I’ve got fourteen notifications. Lucy has been through all my posts, liking every photo of Theo and adding comments—“Such a handsome fellow,” “Sooooo adorable.” I picture her doing the same thing I did earlier, eagerly scrolling through my Timeline, devouring every image of her birth son. I wonder if, like me, the experience made her cry.
25
MADDIE
ON SATURDAY, THEO SWALLOWS salt.
We’re having a relaxing morning. Pete and Theo are downstairs making pancakes—butter and lemon for Pete, Nutella for Theo, vanilla and maple syrup with extra-thick batter for me, what back in Australia they call a pikelet. From what I can hear, Pete has his work cut out preventing Theo from dropping eggs on the floor, or mixing Nutella and maple syrup in some crazy new concoction. For my part, I’m lazing in bed, thinking how lucky I am to have a domestic god for a partner, when I hear Pete roar, “No!”
“What’s up?” I call.
“Jesus!” Pete says. It takes a lot to make him swear in front of Theo, so I run down.
Pete has the tub of cooking salt in his hand. Theo, who’s clambered onto a chair and is now sprawling across the kitchen table, is looking both pleased with himself and slightly apprehensive. In the middle of the table is a big mound of salt and a spoon.
“I turned around and he was just gobbling it up,” Pete says. He’s gone white.
“I’ll call 111,” I say, reaching for my phone. I get through to a recording saying that the NHS helpline is currently experiencing high levels of demand. I ring off. “Perhaps we’d better go to the emergency room. Just in case.”
“You’re meant to make them drink water.” While I’ve been on the phone, Pete’s been googling. “Though no one seems a hundred percent sure. Hang on. Someone on DadStuff may know.”
“I’m not sure an internet forum is the best way to deal with this.” I take Theo over to the sink, trying not to sound as alarmed as I feel. “Okay, Theo. That stuff really isn’t good for you, so I need you to drink a very big glass of water.”
I find a pint glass in the back of the cupboard and fill it to the brim. He drinks about a third—he’s clearly very thirsty.
“I’ll put some Ribena in it,” Pete says. He only lets Theo have Ribena as an occasional treat, so this is almost guaranteed to make Theo drink more.
I press REDIAL and get the same recorded message.
“It’s Saturday morning,” Pete points out. “If we’re lucky, the wait at the emergency room might only be a few hours.”
We look at each other. I know exactly what he’s thinking. Two years ago, we made the decision to get my bump checked out, just in case, and it saved our baby’s life.
I ring off. “Emergency room it is, then.”
“Yuck,” Theo says helpfully, licking his lips and making a face. “More ’bena?”
As I drive us to the hospital, I reflect how, not long ago, something like this would have given me flashbacks to the NICU, maybe even a panic attack. But time is a great healer. It helps, of course, that Pete’s pretty sure Theo didn’t eat more than a few spoonfuls. “I literally turned my back on him for a minute,” he says, turning