You hadn’t expected her to arrive then, right in the middle of the hottest week ever recorded in England. The air was thick and muggy, and your body was already tired from carrying Hazel for nine long months. But she came anyway, pink and blinking, with a mop of damp hair and a squall that could’ve cracked open the sky.

The hospital room was sweltering. No air conditioning—just an ancient fan half-heartedly whirring in the corner, doing more rattling than cooling. Simon stood by the bassinet, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat, eyes darting to Hazel every few seconds.

“She’s too warm, isn’t she?” he said, for the third time in five minutes. “Do you think she’s too hot?”

You tried to soothe him, reminding him the midwife had checked her—no fever, skin the right colour, breaths slow and even. But still, he hovered. Unfolded and re-folded the muslin swaddle. Dabbed her forehead with a cool cloth.

When you finally got home, the heat seemed even heavier. The curtains were drawn tight, fans balanced in every room. You’d read every NHS page about newborns and heat, fed her almost constantly to make sure she didn’t become dehydrated, and still, Simon worried.

Later that night, you found them in the rocking chair. The room was dim, the fan in the corner humming softly. Simon sat shirtless, in nothing but a pair of old cotton shorts, Hazel curled against his bare chest in just her nappy. His hand cupped the back of her tiny head, his chin resting lightly on her crown.

He looked up and smiled, soft and a little dazed. “Can you believe she’s ours?”