Round her left wrist was a little band saying ‘Baby Temple’.‘Amelia Lucy Mary Temple,’ I whispered to her as she lay in my arms. ‘Amelia and Lucy after my two grandmothers, Mary after my mum and Temple after my family. So you’re Miss Milly Temple.’ I kissed the top of her head. ‘Welcome to the world.’The nights in hospital were hard, the crying of twenty or so newborns making sleep impossible. Some of the babies sounded like kittens; others – including Milly – squawked like peacocks; there was one baby who made a trumpeting sound, like a tiny elephant, while the baby in the next bay emitted a constant shivery bleat, like a chilled lamb.During the day it was depressing watching the other mothers being visited by their husbands, having congratulatory kisses bestowed on them, then being taken home with the respect shown to triumphant Olympians. My dad collected me but it felt all wrong. Xan should be doing this, I thought, as we walked through the revolving door with Milly in her car seat.I e-mailed Xan three photos of her.
