Somehow, whenever she thought "baby", her mental image had never been of this tiny creature the midwife had placed in her arms. It was pink and fragile looking, nothing she had encountered before. She knew better, of course, that not all babies were 18 months old and learning to walk. Her brain had just never taken the time to register it.
She held it awkwardly in her arms, not sure what to do. If she held it to close to her, would she hurt it? The midwife, a no nonsense type of woman, bustled over to her bed and rearranged her arms into a cradle-like shape around the infant, who had fallen asleep in her arms.
Silently, she looks up at her husband. He had stayed during the birth, and now watched both her and babe protectively. His eyes mirrored the nervousness she is feeling at being responsible of this tiny being.
She will never tell him the child is not his.