And then he started to cry.
Not a tear. Properly. A man of about sixty in a blue gown, holding a newborn, with his shoulders going.
He said: this can’t be possible.
I did not understand a single word of it. I was soaked through to my hair and my hands would not stop and every part of me felt like it had been turned inside out and then back again.
Three months earlier my husband had slid divorce papers across our dining table.
His mother was standing behind him the way a queen stands behind somebody delivering a sentence. She had come round specifically. She had not taken her coat off.
I looked at the papers and I said: I’m pregnant.
Tobiah straightened the silver watch on his wrist — he does that when he is about to say something he has rehearsed — and said:
