The first thing I notice is that she has only thirty-eight friends. I might be a low-frequency user, but even so I’ve managed to collect a couple of hundred—contemporaries from college, girlfriends, colleagues, neighbors, people I’ve met on shoots, even a few clients. It seems incredible that anyone could have such a small social circle. She hasn’t posted much, either—just photographs of David, mostly. Lying on a mat in what looks like a specialist sensory room. In a physiotherapy chair, with the comment, “Trying really hard!” On a breathing ventilator—“Hopefully just a brief trip back to intensive care!” In a ball pool, immobile and a little forlorn, staring at the camera with an anxious expression. With each one, looking at his elfin features, I feel an echo of the same maternal tug I felt when I held his light, slender body in my arms. I think of the last time we took Theo to a ball pool, the exuberance with which he’d flailed his legs, kicking the colored balls into a volcanic blur before deciding to hurl them two at a time at a fair-haired little girl playing in the far corner. We’d had to wade in and forcibly haul him out, his tiny body writhing and kicking so hard in protest that his shirt actually came away in our hands, like podding a broad bean.

   I scroll on through the feed, hungry for more images of David. Most of Lucy’s posts aren’t even real posts, just shares of funny videos that already have millions of views, warnings about scammers, or appeals for children with cancer to be sent a thousand Christmas cards. But finally I reach some pictures of David in his cot at home, posted over a year ago. There’s an oxygen tube up his nose—you can just see the cylinder under the cot—and a bundle of wires snaking from under the sheet that suggests the presence of a monitor. He looks so vulnerable and, yes, so like me that something in my heart opens to him. That’s my baby, I think with a sudden stab of longing. My firstborn. From inside my womb. Unexpectedly, I find I’m blinking back tears, right there in our open-plan office. That’s the little boy whose body my body failed. I feel a pang of anguish that this delicate, fair-haired creature will never burrow under a pile of colored balls then erupt through them like a jack-in-the-box, the way Theo did.

And even sadder that I’ll never cuddle him 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 around to check on him.