Quiet came over the flat suddenly, as it did each night. Baths and homework, all the final preparations for the coming day created a such a flurry each night that Shelagh thought would the family would never settle. Then she would turn around and Timothy would be in bed reading, Angela asleep in her cot, and Patrick would be settled in his chair reading.

Once the quiet came, Shelagh slid into her own routine. Lunches were made, laundry sorted for the next day, and baby bottles were sterilized. By nearly nine, she was finally finished.

Patrick came into the kitchen. “You’re always so busy in here in the evenings now. Come sit with me.” He held out a hand to her.

“I will, Patrick, just one more thing. Let me get a bottle ready for Angela’s two a.m. feeding, and then I’ll join you.”

Patrick leant against the door jamb and watched her as she reached up to the cupboard for the formula.

“You don’t have to watch me, Patrick,” Shelagh told him.

His eyes laughed as his eyebrows twitched. “Maybe I like watching you,” he teased.

She glanced back, rolling her eyes. She reached from the collection of perfectly sterilized and stacked bottles. She always hated this part. It was rather like finishing the washing and having to use something right away. Measuring the powder, she grew a bit self-conscious.

“Patrick, stop. You’re making me nervous.”

Pushing off against the door frame, he  moved beside her.

“I know what you’re thinking, Shelagh. Don’t.”

Shelagh shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Patrick reached around and took the formula can from her hands. “This can wait.” He slid his hands up her arms and looked down into her eyes. “What you feed Angela doesn’t make a difference. Shelagh, you could feed that child Horlicks and she’d thrive. In fact, I think Sister Monica Joan would prefer it.”

Shelagh wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I know, Patrick, it’s just that sometimes I feel like I’m letting her down. I want to give her everything.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But you can’t give her everything. No parent can. I can’t give Timothy everything he needs, even though he’s my biological son. But we can give our little girl all we have.” He pulled her close. “And you give her so much, sweetheart. Angela is the sweet, lovely baby she is because of you. Not breast milk, not genetics, Shelagh. You.”

Finally, she was able to meet his eyes. “I suppose you’re right, Patrick.” She stepped closer into his arms. “You always make me feel better.”
“Do I?” he asked, his voice deepening. He lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes teasing. “Then I suppose you’d better make it up to me.”

The unfinished bottle forgotten, Patrick led his wife to their bedroom.

Some time later, deep in the dark, quiet night, Angela’s cries came through the flat. Shelagh groaned and lifted her head from Patrick’s chest. “Patrick?” she whispered.

“Hmmm?” came the muffled reply.

“Do you know what the best part about bottle feeding is?”

Patrick groaned. He had been out-manuevered.

Shelagh turned to her side, wrapping the blankets tightly around herself. “You get to to take the midnight feedings sometimes, dearest!”