35. Derek

A thin, piercing wail wakes me. It travels through me, holding a sharp probe to my brain stem and jolting me into action. I sit bolt upright.

"It's my turn," groans Wyn. "I'll go. You went last time."

He staggers out of bed, bumping into the wall and wincing as he heads to the nursery. I lie back and try to doze off. I drift in and out for a while, but the sound of an unhappy newborn baby, our newborn baby, is impossible to tune out. After half an hour or so, when it becomes clear Murray is in no mood to settle, I get up and pad to his room. We moved him from our room to his own a week ago, thinking it would help all of us get more sleep. The jury is out on whether it's working.

Wyn has Murray on the changing table, a tiny, angry, kicking pink bundle in the process of being folded into a burrito. Wyn stops to pull a handful of wipes out of the dispenser as he tries in vain to stem the fountain of spit-up Murray is producing. Wyn's hair is standing on end, his T-shirt twisted around his body. He's wearing a pair of long sleeping pants tied at the waist with a pale-pink drawstring. Soft fabric clings to one of my favorite parts of him.

"Bunny," I say quietly. "Do you want me to take him?"

He looks back, beautiful blue eyes pleading, but says, "No, no, it's okay, you took him last time." It's been one of those nights you forget exists when your children are in their teens or twenties. Murray has been up four times already and it's only two in the morning.

"You look tired, baby. Why don't you get some sleep and I'll sit up with him. I don't mind."

I really don't. I need less sleep than Wyn does, thanks to a lifetime of night hours spent fighting gravity and dreaming of flying and dying. I didn't realize it at the time, I didn't appreciate it at all, but maybe all that was training for this stage of my life.

Wyn hands Murray to me, leaning a heavy head against my shoulder for a moment. "Thank you," he murmurs, lips moving against my bare skin.

I sit back in the chair in the corner of the room, propping Murray up on my chest, and start rocking him gently. I run my hand up and down his back, feeling the knobs of his tiny vertebrae against my palm. I do it until his rage splutters and burns out, mournful cries turning to little snickers and sniffly gurgles.

Wyn stands near the door and watches us, heavy eyes tracking slowly. The struggle to open them after they slide shut growing more evident every time he blinks.

"Go to sleep, bunny."

"Uh-uh," he says, not moving. Not even blinking now.

"Go."

He shakes his head and stands firm. His eyes don't leave mine except when they dip to the baby I hold in my arms. Each time it happens, they soften. He leans his head against the doorway, sighing gently. Dark curls fall onto his forehead as a slow, helpless smile spreads across his face.

"I've dreamed of this moment," he whispers.