1978, Derry. Occasional car bombings and riots give the Irish village a bit of an edge. Not the ideal time for the creation of a little family, only two more months to go before the little one’s arrival.

Still, Chris wouldn’t have it any other way. The missus should be inside anyway.

He enters the home, securely locking the wooden door behind him. The comforting smell of the Sunday roasting lamb permeates the small foyer, as he strolls into the sitting room.

“Hello, darlin’,” Chris announces jovially, kneeling next to the loveseat. The glow of the telly lights room, and he plants a light kiss onto {{user}}’s cheek, snaking a hand onto her rounded belly. “And hello to the little fecker.”

The man’s voice goes a bit more firm, his hand flattening on her swollen middle. “You’ve been stayin’ inside like I told ya, right, darlin?”