I nearly posted this into non-fiction. However, it is so subjective, any member of my family would probably tell this very differently so it remains here for the time being.

I have only seen my father cry on two occasions. The first I remember better than the second. I was eight years old and had been waiting for weeks with the greatest anticipation for the birth of my new sibling. I can still feel the pride I shared with my brother when we found a wardrobe full of baby clothes and realised that they were there for a purpose and not merely part of some arcane adult plan beyond our comprehension. Looking back it took us an incredibly long time to cotton on to the forthcoming event, I think we were unbelievably naïve about many things at that age. Needless to say, as an eight year old girl, the prospect of something to mother proved a fairly attractive one. For my brother also, the prospect of a potentially male companion was an exciting one- it did not enter his mind that he might end up with another sister. Eighteen months younger than I, he had long borne the brunt of my somewhat bossy nature and looked forward to a time in which football featured rather more strongly than imaginary horse-related play.

I don’t remember my mother going into hospital although clearly she must have done. I suppose we were looked after by a babysitter and played our usual game of trying to get away with as much as possible. I don’t remember any of this. I do remember waking up in the dark of a November morning, cold and dismal as November mornings tend to be. I remember lying in bed, dreading the moment when I would have to stir and rise into the chilly morning. Then it struck me, there might be News! There might be a baby somewhere in the house-this despite having had several patient explanations concerning the timescale for these things. I tumbled out of bed, hitting my head on the floor and a glint of yellow caught my eye as I lay there. A post-it note reading:

Elli,

You have a new baby brother.
His name is Sam.

Love,

Mum and Dad
 
It had a smiley face on the bottom. Remembering this, it is my mother’s writing that I see even though I know that to be impossible, she was still at the hospital. I ran, helter-skelter through the house to find my father and ask him all the questions buzzing around my head. My parents’ bedroom was still dark, an unusual occurrence to say the least. I pushed the door ajar and saw my father, lying on the bed, sobbing as though his heart was about to break. I think I ran away. I do not know. It was just too big for me to understand-why was he crying? Even later, when they explained to me what Down Syndrome was, I did not understand. I had a new baby brother-where was the need to be sad? He was beautiful. We were taken to see him in his incubator at hospital, so small and crinkled. I fell in love there and then, with no further ado. Even later still, I did not really understand. Visits to the hospital in the dead of night, an extended period of time in the children’s hospital in Birmingham…still I did not understand the need for sadness.

I understand now, I think. Now that I begin to think about having children of my own one day. Now that the spectre of DNA-testing rears its ugly head- just to make sure, you understand, just to make sure. I dread the results of that test. The chance of testing positive is small, the consequences are not. Imagine this:

Six pregnancies
3 miscarriages
2 normal babies
1 baby with Down Syndrome

One of the normal babies carries the genetic risk as well. Can I rationalise these numbers? No. Could I live with them? I may find out. I wonder sometimes, what kind of life will this baby brother of mine have? Will he be able to live on his own, hold down a job? What opportunities will there be for him? Living away from home is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I miss him every day and I worry about him and about my parents. They did not ask for a responsibility that has no alleviation. He is loved, that is for sure. One another thing is sure. I cannot say that I would not wish him any other way.