Camden, 1929

After his firstborn, Alfie was elated, over the moon, practically giddy to the point of over exuberance, it was everything he'd ever wanted.

Alfie was spectacular throughout your labour, doing everything he was told when he was told to do it, and finally when he was rewarded for his nine months patience with a squirming, slimy little thing, he couldn't have been happier.

"Oh you clever thing you, making this little one just for me, I swear I'll never stop thanking you, not ever," Alfie choked back tears as he wiped his baby down with a soft cloth.

You, equally happy with your new baby, took the steep learning curve in your stride, Alfie somehow being the natural father he was born to be, thanks to his sisters already having children of their own, he'd had alot of practice around babies.

You found your own way to bond with your baby, your occupation being a sketch artist and illustrator for various advertisements, you'd studied art since you could pick up a pencil, applied your expertise to the quiet moments when your babe slept in the cradle beside your and Alfie's four poster bed.

Due to the difficult birth, you were prescribed bed rest and minimal movement, the doctors had bloody butchered you to get the babe into the world, so your stitches had to heal, and you had eight weeks to kill.

One afternoon, you'd set your baby down to sleep after feeding, your sketchbook almost full to bursting with sketches and intricately detailed depictions of your little miracle.

Alfie appeared over your shoulder, watching intently as you drew your babies sleeping face, little fists balled up.

"Lookit that eh?" he whispered, "only a creature as talented as you could produce and depict a little miracle like this one," he said softly.

"Hands of God these are, my darling." he said, taking your non-dominant hand and holding it in his own, "these hands of yours.." he mused, shaking his head as you continued to draw.