CHANGING FACES by Tracey-Anne Plater (3rd place, Jul22)

The epidural is wearing off, and it feels like a hot rusty blade is carving through my stomach. None of this was supposed to happen.

My son is hours old, looking at me with tiny dark eyes like marbles. His creased skin and patchy hair tell the story of his scrunched-up journey into the world. I already love him unconditionally – I have done since I felt him growing inside me – but I can’t look at him without my emotions drowning in fear and guilt.

Ben returns, placing his coffee down to lean over and kiss the head of our wrinkled miracle. And he is ours. He has to be. I want to enjoy and absorb this experience, storing it for years to come, but I’m not allowed. I’m paying for my mistake. 

I watch the man I love cradle our creation with nausea and adrenaline charging through my veins. Ben has all the love a child needs, ready to hand over. The perfect package of responsibility, protection, patience and tenderness. He isn’t out of his depths, like me.

‘You’re crying. What’s wrong?’ he asks.

‘I’m just overwhelmed. These are happy tears. Exhausted, happy tears.’

‘The baby seat’s in the car. Mum’s batch-cooked meals so we can focus on the baby while we settle him.’

He’s so sure of everything – I want to grab his head and scream at him, ‘This baby might not be yours!’

He moves my hair from my eyes and kisses my forehead before laying the baby in his plastic container. I can’t understand how this burning, empty sack of a stomach produced a fully formed person. He wriggles in a see-through tub like an experiment as Ben says his goodbyes.

‘I’ll be back first thing with some premature baby bits. This newborn stuff is swamping him.’

Why hadn’t that occurred to me? His tiny limbs are lost in layers of bodysuits. Of course he needs smaller clothes. I’m supposed to think of these things. But Ben is the planner. He has lists of everything we need and reminders on the fridge.

My fiancé’s footsteps out of the ward hit my heart with every tap. The steps of a delighted new dad, unaware this premature baby may not be premature at all. He may be right on time, just a little small.

The wailing babies on the ward, the continuous observations and medicines for us both, and the fact my baby wants to feed every hour but hardly takes any down tell me that sleep is an unrealistic goal. Which is fine because each time my eyes close, I see the face of the other potential father.

I almost called off the wedding. I had a wobble; everyone said it was normal.

‘Lots of people get cold feet and doubts. It’s expected,’ they told me.

Ben was watching a rom-com on the TV that used to be exclusively for my indie films and documentaries, laughing at toilet humour with his feet on the table full of clutter. I panicked. Was this my life now? Mindless comedy and mess? So, I called it off. I needed space.

Somewhere in that lost week, I ended up in a spirit-fuelled fumble with someone else. Someone I’d never looked at in that way before. He came to my flat to check on me – people kept doing that as if calling off my wedding meant I must be ill. We watched an indie film and shared a bottle. He kissed me, and I liked the thrill of doing something taboo. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t stop. He left straight after, back home before his wife finished her night shift. The guilt didn’t kick in until the next morning when my hungover eyes assessed the crime scene: empty glasses on the table, my underwear on the sofa, the musty odour of bodies and booze.

I thought we were in the clear. My dating scan suggested conception occurred a week later. I told myself this was the case, that everything happens for a reason, and getting back with my fiancé, telling him I was having a crazy moment, seemed right. The pregnancy sealed the deal. The hour I spent naked with another man on our corner sofa was insignificant. I was ready to commit myself, my body, and my life to this man and his child.

The nerves and uncertainty still lurked deep beneath the morning sickness, cravings, baby names and unwelcome belly rubs, like a bag of snakes waiting to break free and wreak havoc. Whenever my future mother-in-law arrived with muslin towels and baby clothes, I felt a twinge of guilt.

‘What if the baby isn’t your son’s?’ I’d think while she reeled off the names she hoped we’d consider.

I told Ben marriage and kids didn’t interest me on our first date. That was for people with careers, cars, and self-discipline. I had store cards, a push-bike, and a slush-puppy machine. But things changed. He moved in, we opened a joint savings account, stayed in on Friday nights to save money, and had friends over for dinner rather than pre-pub binges.

I hated plunging into the world of responsibility. He was making me more ‘normal’. What if I started finding rom-coms entertaining and paying bills on time? I told myself my dirty secret was a justified treat. The excitement of being seen as an irresistible being rather than a future wife was an indulgence I deserved. So, I decided I had my fun, but it was time to grow up. It worked, mostly. We were the happy couple shopping for travel systems and nursery wallpaper. I learnt the intricacy of packing hospital bags with endless lists of ‘essentials’ that I never knew existed. I’m still unsure why a tube named nipple cream isin my bag. The only time we fought was over names. We both wanted to use our father’s names as the middle name. We used neither. Who needs a middle name, anyway?

After a morning that is just an extension of the night, I notice the other new mums on the ward greeting their visitors. I watch these women from my lumpy bed in the corner of this stuffy ward. They all look so different. Tired, in pain, but happy. Why don’t they look scared? I press the buzzer each time my baby needs changing. He seems too tiny to manipulate his limbs into the arm and leg holes. The nurses do it in the blink of an eye, sometimes with one hand while the other checks my stats.

‘It’ll come, don’t worry. You’ll get used to it in no time,’ one kind nurse says. I don’t believe her.

I watched his tiny face all night. His skin creases are evening out a little, and I swear his face is changing.

‘He looks just like his daddy,’ the midwife said when she handed him to me, covered in bloodstains.

‘Which one?’ I thought.

I’ve been desperately seeking his features for clues, but it’s futile. I feed him while he makes a sniffling, wheezy sound.

‘His nose is bunged up. It’s common for caesarean delivers,’ they said. Yet another thing I have no idea about.

I heard the lady in the bed opposite tell the nurse she used a sperm donor to have a baby independently. I was envious of her freedom. No one watching you make all those new mum mistakes, no in-laws telling you to call your child after a member of the Royal Family, no need to know whose sperm made it to the egg.

I hear Ben’s excited voice in the corridor, and he’s not alone. He walks into the ward with his parents, and I immediately feel my face burn up. Pyjamas barely cover the mass of jelly that my belly has become, and I’m sure I’ve bled through my pad.

‘Hello beautiful, how are you feeling? How’s our boy?’ He asks, scooping the baby from his cot and disturbing the sleep I spent ages trying to encourage.

It’s not me he’s here to see. Not really.

‘Mum and Dad want to meet him. I said you wouldn’t mind.’

Ben’s mother hasn’t looked at me once yet. Her eyes are fixated on the grandchild I’ve produced for her.

‘He looks just like Benjamin when he was born. So handsome. Don’t you think, Mike?’

Ben’s father doesn’t say a word. He stands with his hands in his pockets, the only person on this ward who looks more uncomfortable than me.

‘I need to take the baby for his medication. It’s just down the corridor. We won’t be long,’ I say, desperately trying to hold my dressing gown together.

‘Is she okay, Ben?’ His mother asks as I reach the corridor, pausing to calm my nerves.

A hand touches me on the shoulder, causing me to flinch.

‘Is he mine?’

I turn to my future father-in-law, his face decorated with beads of sweat and lines of worry.

‘I don’t know… Yet.’