Page 71 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

Bruce, nestling a takeaway coffee in his hands and looking tired in the eyes, meets me outside the hospital room. ‘Charlie, you made it.’

Even out here, he’s whispering. And it’s clear he’s a mix of both exhausted and happy, so when he starts tearing up, I’m not sure if I’m meant to console or congratulate.

‘I’m a dad , Charlie.’

‘Oh, Bruce.’ Juggling flowers and gifts, I pull him in for a hug. On my shoulder rests an overnight bag and I let it plonk down on the tiled corridor floor. ‘You’re a dad.’

‘I can’t tell if she’s tiny or I’m just big.’

‘Both.’

When he chuckles, my body vibrates. I pull away and brush aside a piece of hair from in front of my eyes. ‘How is she? How are they both?’

‘Good, they’re good.’ He nods. ‘Genevieve’s going to be so excited to see you. Maybe more excited than when she met our daughter.’ Immediately, he corrects himself. ‘That was a joke. You’ve definitely been knocked down to the second spot. Sorry.’

‘Third.’ I hold out my hand to mark the hierarchy. ‘Baby, Bruce, then me.’

‘Oh, Charlie,’ he says, laughing. ‘You’ve always been above me. I could only dream of her loving me more than you.’

And now we’re both crying.

‘Genevieve is a mum ,’ I say. ‘Holy shit.’

‘I know.’

I was finally cleared to fly and it’s coincided with Genevieve giving birth.

Someone, somewhere, is looking out for us.

And we’re making up for lost time, like we promised.

Regular messages, phone calls during the week.

But also, being happy for each other. Accepting that our lives have diverged, will continue to diverge, but knowing we’ll make time for one another.

I spent so much time trying to replace her when I really just needed to understand how I could keep her in my life, in a different way. That she could never be replaced.

‘You want to head in?’ he asks. ‘I’ll grab your bag.’

Crouching, he grabs at the handle and throws the duffel over his shoulder. Gestures to the hospital door, signalling he’ll follow.

‘Thank you.’

Inside, their hospital room is already filled with scores of flowers, boxes of chocolates and sweets, congratulatory cards and balloons.

Angling around the corner, we lock eyes. Genevieve and me. She’s wired, I can tell, and maybe a little strung out. Hair brushed but greasy and pulled back into a low bun. Face pale. But she’s looking at me like she’s been waiting for me. For this moment. Expectant and thrilled, with a huge grin.

We share a smile, and then she looks down at the bundle in her arms and raises it a little. Rotates so I can see the face. A tiny, plump, sleeping face. She’s beautiful.

Bruce takes everything from my hands – the gifts, the flowers, my handbag – without me even asking. Suddenly, I’m not carrying anything. Suddenly, I’m by Genevieve’s side. Looking down at this pink-nosed, sleeping baby. Watching as her chest rises and falls.

‘She’s actually here,’ Genevieve says, and then she’s crying. Well, crying but trying not to cry because she’s trying not to wake the baby. ‘She’s here. And she’s alive.’

‘She’s gorgeous.’ I look back at Bruce, who is smiling, and whisper to both of them. ‘Congratulations.’

‘How are you?’ she asks.

‘Who cares about me – I’m fine.’ Better than fine. Like weight has been removed from my shoulders, like I’ve cast aside everything that’s plagued me from the past twenty years and stepped forward towards something healthier.

I live alone and I’m happy. And it’s still a surprise to reflect on that, because I feel like I’d conditioned my body to wince and cringe at the idea of being alone. For so long my brain thought there was something impossible about all that. How utterly ridiculous, now that I’m out the other side.

Genevieve grabs my hand. Squeezes. ‘Charlie, she’s here . She made it.’ Then, laughing, she adds, ‘I’m still so terrified.’

‘You’re going to be great .’

Genevieve rotates the baby once more, tucks her inside her arm so she’s facing me. She’s still asleep, but I reach out and grab her tiny hand. Let her whole hand close around my index finger.

‘Charlie,’ Genevieve says, looking down at my goddaughter. ‘Meet—’