Free In Falling Snow by Mary-Rose MacColl

Clive Markwell’s direct orders. “I think he wanted to teach her a lesson,” she said to David. “I think that’s what it was about. She’s young and unmarried and had sex so he wanted to teach her a lesson.”
    David shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry too much. He’s never going to change and everyone knows what he’s like. And anyway, she might have been better off. There’s research coming out of the Netherlands that suggests labour pain has a purpose, that while we’re getting better at blotting out all pain, women in the Netherlands are getting better at giving birth without pain relief. The pain is like a marathon. It makes a woman feel good to get through it.”
    Grace laughed bitterly. “What next? I bet the researchers are all blokes.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œHow about if insemination meant we crushed a guy’s testicles between two panes of glass.”
    â€œYouch, how did you think of that?”
    â€œI just mean that if men had to go through the kind of pain women go through to have babies there wouldn’t be studies in the Netherlands about the usefulness of pain. It would be a given. It’s the curse of Eve by another name, that study. And at any rate, if you’re arguing that Clive Markwell was denying a sixteen-year-old girl pain relief because he’s read a study, I’d have to take issue. I don’t think Clive reads studies.”
    â€œTouché,” David said. “But you did the right thing.”
    â€œI can’t abide that generation of docs. They’re just so . . .”
    Grace heard a noise inside the house. She turned and saw Henry standing at the bottom of the stairs. His hair, curly like David’s but dark red, flopped into his eyes. He was holding up his pyjama pants, a pair of plaids they’d bought for Mia, Grace thought now, that were well past their time. Henry refused to give them up. At three, he was already a hoarder. “Did you wake up, sweetie?”
    â€œMy legs hurt.”
    â€œSame place?” He nodded.
    â€œDid you get that referral?” David said.
    â€œNo, I didn’t,” Grace said, flashing him a look. “It’s probably just those growing pains,” she said to Henry.
    She put down her coffee and went inside and scooped up her small son. “Who are you today, Spider-Man?”
    â€œNo, I’m Superman.” He rubbed his eyes, looked as if he might cry. “I’ve been Superman for ages.” He pulled open his pyjama shirt, revealing the red S on his chest. Grace remembered now that Spider-Man had been retired some months before when the suit split in the crotch. When Grace had suggested it be replaced, Henry told her no because he was now the man of steel. David had put the kids to bed the night before. The suit had obviously been non-negotiable.
    â€œâ€™Course you are. I’m so sorry. How could I forget that?” Grace sat Henry on the bench while she filled up a hot water bottle from the kettle. Then she took him upstairs, put him back in bed, wrapped the hot water bottle in a pillowcase, and put it under his little legs. “Better?” she said. He shook his head, looked again as if he might cry. “I’ll rub your legs. You try to go back to sleep.”
    â€œBut I’m not tired,” he said.
    â€œYes, you are. You just don’t know it,” she said in a soft singsong voice.
    â€œYou always say that.”
    She smiled. “And I’m always right.” She pushed his hair back from his face and then sat down on the bed and massaged his calves, stiff as boards. She watched him drowse back off, then curled in beside him, taking his tiny thin body into her arms, careful to make sure the heat of the hot water bottle stayed on his legs. She stretched out around him. Within minutes, she joined him in sleep.

    She heard voices downstairs, David making breakfast.
    â€œNot