Paper Hearts

THEN:Chapter 25

“There isn’t” I grinned, “You and Em will be excellent role models to him, I’m sure of it”

“What are you doing about Godfathers?”

“I don’t know...” I knew who Ollie would want to be Godfather to our baby, and who I would have chosen too – but that was impossible. Ralph and Jane knew nothing about the baby (though I was sure that Jane was beginning to suspect that something was going on from my evasiveness every time we spoke), and neither did Kieran. The only male friend I’d ever had was Jack, and I knew Ollie would be furious if I ever made him Godfather. I explained this to Ms Hugo.

“But you don’t have to worry about what he thinks anymore, Eden. He’s not here”

“George is still is son” I replied stubbornly; she had the same attitude as my parents did whenever I mentioned Ollie’s wishes or opinions, “I won’t disrespect what he would want”

“Maybe – maybe if you just told him, Eden...” she spoke gently and hesitantly, clearly worried about offending me.

“I can’t. I swore. We had a deal, and I’m not ashamed to say that I’m too proud to be the one that breaks. Plus I’m still angry with him for coming here and not saying a word to me”

“Well of course you are, Eden, but I – no-one that cares about you wants you to be so unhappy”

“I’m not unhappy” I retorted instantly; a reflex action, “I have my son. I’m fine”

It was as I said this that George opened his eyes, squirming a little at the bright light, and Ms Hugo saw his eyes for the first time. Her lip twitched.

“Ah. I see what you mean” she looked up at me with a little smile, “He has his father’s eyes”

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There are a lot of things I don’t remember about the first year of my son’s life. Perhaps because I was still pining for Ollie, no matter how much I tried to hide it; perhaps because it was such a shock to the system – perhaps, even, because George developed so quickly that everything became a bit of a blur. But I remember the big things – landmark moments in his development and growth, moments that made me smile and laugh and weep.

I remember his first smile. He was laying on his back, kicking about with his fat little legs, while I made the Hungry Caterpillar my Dad had bought him (he recalled that it had been my favourite childhood book) climb across his belly and nibble his nose. And just like that, it appeared, a smile; a beautiful, sunny smile that also coincided with his first real laugh. I started laughing too, I remember, laughing in stunned delight, and his smiles continued. He started to smile everytime he looked at me.

I remember him learning to crawl. He was six months old. One moment he was there, sitting quietely in a circle of cushions; the next he was crawling over them and towards me. I was dozing on the sofa while Mum watched him in rapture, and she was soon shrieking with delight. When I opened my eyes and saw him sitting looking up at me, he gave me that beautiful smile again, along with the most infectious little chuckle. He was proud of himself.

I remember the first time he said my name. Well not my name, obviously, but the new name that I had had to adopt just for him; “Mama”. He said it with such pride one day as I fed him breakfast, and as he said it he stretched his little arms towards me in a fruitless attempt to hug me like I did with him. Two days later, however, he heard me calling my Dad and, without hesitation, said “Dada”. He beamed at me, expecting me to be pleased, I suppose – but I was appalled.

“No, George, darling; that’s Mummy’s Dada. That’s Grandad, remember?”

He just looked at me innocently with those big dark eyes; I could have sworn I saw confusion, “Dada?”