Jane is glowing, her smile brighter than last I saw. “You want to hold her again?” she asks me. “Sure,” I breathe, and at Jane’s bedside, she passes over her little bundle of joy. I cradle her against my arm. The baby smacks her lips in a tiny yawn, and a wave of uneasy emotion crashes through me, clenching my stomach. I have a dark childhood. Probably worse than anything Thatcher even went through, and I have nothing against babies—but sometimes I do feel like they shouldn’t touch me.
