Patrick Turner pushed away his empty dinner plate and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "Not a bad effort, if I do say so myself."

From across the table, Timothy looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Mum made the casserole. All you did was stick it in the oven."

Patrick held up a finger in protest. "And I made sure not to burn it."

"This time," his son replied with a cheeky grin. From her high chair at the end of the table, Angela giggled and clapped her sticky hands over her mouth.

The Turner men – and Angela – were on their own tonight. Shelagh was on duty at the maternity home, taking up her first night shift since she'd returned to nursing. She'd been apprehensive about working nights, even though Patrick had assured her he'd have the children fed and ready for bed by the appropriate hour.

"We'll be fine, Shelagh," he'd told her as she'd prepared to leave. "I'm looking forward to it, actually. It's been ages since I've read Angela bedtime stories."

His wife shot him a stern look as she glanced in the mirror to straighten her nurse's cap. "One story, Patrick. And then bed, by 7 p.m."

He grinned and leaned over to kiss her temple. "Yes, Nurse Turner."

For most of the evening, Patrick managed to stick to Shelagh's schedule. Dinner was cooked and eaten; the washing up was done with Timothy's help. Even Angela had her bath without any complaints. Patrick helped her wriggle into her nightgown and sent her down the hall to say goodnight to her brother.

"'Night Ange," Tim muttered in return, his head bent over a stack of textbooks. Patrick frowned at the violet shadows under his son's eyes. He was proud of Tim, but he hoped he wasn't working himself too hard.

"I can help you check that over when I'm done putting Angela to bed," he offered.

Tim shook his head. "It's fine. We're supposed to do it on our own, and I'm almost finished anyway." He scratched out an answer and then looked up. "Can I borrow your copy of The Lancet when you're finished?"

Patrick let out a huff of disbelief but passed the magazine to his son. "When I was your age, I was reading comics and adventure novels before bed."

"Well I've got to start early if I'm going to keep up with you, don't I?" Tim said with a smirk.

Patrick laughed and then bent down to scoop up Angela. She let out a giggling squeal. "Now young lady, no medical journals for you at bedtime just yet. We're going to read something much nicer."

Patrick carried his daughter down the hall to the flat's small corner room. He and Shelagh had moved the toddler here from their bedroom a few months before. Angela was a good sleeper, and if she had a bedtime story, she generally stayed in her own room. The arrangement made Patrick's nightly call-outs less disruptive for everyone, and gave him and Shelagh some much-craved privacy.

After tucking his daughter in, Patrick looked through the stack of books on the dresser. The Tales of Beatrix Potter rested on top. He thought he remembered Shelagh saying it was Angela's newest favorite. His daughter's grin when he held up the book confirmed it. He sat next to her on the small bed, turning the book toward her so she could see the pictures.

"Ready? All tucked in?"

Angela nodded, her eyes fixed on the open book.

Patrick cleared his throat and began to read. "'The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Once upon a time, there were four little rabbits and their names were: Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Peter…'"

He couldn't remember reading to Tim like this, Patrick thought as he read on. When Tim was Angela's age, Patrick had been too busy in the evenings. He'd been a young - well, younger - doctor then, only starting out, watching the National Health Service take shape and grow. When he finally had time to read to his son, Tim had outgrown children's fairy stories and could read on his own.

But there had been a few times, when Tim was still an infant and Patrick had sat up with him while Marianne slept. He didn't know very many nursery rhymes and ran quickly out of lullabies to sing. Instead, he'd settle his tiny son in the crook of his arm and read aloud from whatever he had at hand. This was usually old case reports or copies of The Lancet. But he'd enliven the dry medical phrases with sing-song voices, and Tim would grin and gurgle back. They'd hold a conversation this way, talking in separate languages but understanding each other completely.

Though the reading material was vastly different, Patrick gave the same attention to Angela now. He did voices for the mischievous Peter and the gruff Mr. McGregor, and added dramatic pauses here and there.

Angela listened, alert at first. Then she relaxed into his side, her brown eyes drooping with sleep as they reached the end of the tale.

"…. but Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper." Patrick closed the book. "The End."

Angela's eyes flew open. "End?"

"Yes. The End. Time for good night." He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"No end. More story, Dadda."

Patrick raised his eyebrows. "Angela, you already had a story. It's time for bed now."

She pouted and looked up at him with wide eyes. "Please? More story."

Patrick tried to frown and look stern – he really did. But when Angela snuggled closer, all Patrick could think of was how much he missed these small moments with his children. Tim wasn't a child anymore, and Angela would be grown up soon, too. The time for stories would be over.

He glanced at his wristwatch, and saw it wasn't even half-seven yet. One more story wouldn't hurt.

"All right, but don't tell Mummy," he said, tapping Angela on the nose and transforming her pout into a grin.

Patrick paged through the thick storybook again. "What should we read next, hmm? Benjamin Bunny? Flopsy Bunnies?" There were an awful lot of stories about rabbits, Patrick thought. Angela might like something different. He flipped past Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and Jemima Puddleduck to the back of the book.

"The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin," he began to read. "'This is a tale about a tail—a tail that belonged to a little red squirrel, and his name was Nutkin. ' "

"No!"

Patrick turned to look at his daughter, who had buried her blonde head into his side. "Angela? What's wrong?" He rubbed her shoulder, but she didn't look up. "What's the matter?"

"No swirl," he heard her mumble.

He frowned. "The squirrels?" Her tiny body shook at the words.

Patrick thumbed through the story's watercolor illustrations, perplexed. He didn't see anything particularly menacing about squirrels. He didn't notice them at all during the rare occasions when he found time to go to the park. But Angela seemed genuinely terrified of the frolicking creatures. She refused to lift her head.

"All right, all right. No squirrels." Patrick flipped back to The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies. He began to read in a calm, gentle voice, the same tone he used for children who cried during vaccinations.

After a page or two about bunnies falling asleep in Mr. McGregor's rubbish heap, Angela lifted her head. Patrick glanced over. His daughter's eyes were still red, but otherwise, she looked calm. She lay back on her pillow and was asleep by the time he finished the tale. Patrick eased off the bed, his joints creaking from sitting in a cramped position, and placed the book back on the dresser. With one last look at his sleeping daughter, he turned off the light. Squirrels, he thought wryly. He'd have to remember to tell Shelagh that one.