Cynthia experiences gestational diabetes during her pregnancy, and he orders bed-rest. Rowan worries about her for months on end, but Cynthia is serene from first to last. She spends a lot of time fingering her rosary, blue eyes fixed on a realm he can't see. Since it keeps her calm, Rowan doesn't comment on it. He's been a doctor long enough to accept that he doesn't know everything; the role of mind over matter can't be discounted completely.
Their son Robert is born two weeks early after a hard labor, but he's in good condition. The relief that Rowan feels overwhelms him. Although it isn't his specialty, he's delivered babies before, but none of them has ever been so precious, so miraculous. Holding his son in the delivery room, rocking the squalling infant, the salt of his joyful tears flows to mingle with the birth fluids still wet on the tiny body. There is evidence of ginger-colored fuzz on his delicate head. He's as fair as his mother, and so compact that Rowan thinks Robert will be slightly-built as well.
Cynthia needs emergency surgery and Rowan is torn between rejoicing for his son and concern for his wife. He relaxes when the hysterectomy is trouble-free. Robert will be their only child, and his mother is upset. They were going to have three children, it's not fair! she laments. Rowan shrugs. There's nothing he can do about it, is there? It's pointless to complain. They have a son; he's healthy and vigorous. Cynthia recovers her strength, but her disposition has changed.
When they bring Robert home, trouble begins. Cynthia has worked neonatal---she knows how to care for an infant. Here, it's just her and Robert, and Rowan is impatient when she calls him in a panic over every minor event. How difficult can it be, to look after one beautiful little child? Fathers are supposed to be proud of their children, but until now, he hasn't had a clue what that meant. Rowan was the youngest of six, and his father rarely had time for any of them.
The first thing he does when he returns home every night is to examine his son. Rowan makes time consistently, and so he notices, as Robbie approaches ten months of age, that he seems to be more quiet than usual in recent evenings. Lethargic, even. Rowan says nothing to Cynthia, not wanting to worry her, but draws a small vial of blood from his son to test for things no father wants to find.
First he's stunned, then he's furious. He's seldom raised his voice to Cynthia, much less his hand, but when he returns home, Rowan seizes her by the shoulders and shakes her. What has she been doing, putting alcohol in their son's bottles? What was she thinking? Cynthia weeps. Her hair, longer now, veils her face. "He cries all the time! Sometimes he screams for no reason, just screams and screams! I thought I'd go mad! I needed something for my nerves."
The mystery is solved. The alcohol was passed along to the infant through breast-feeding.
Rowan is exasperated. A nurse ought to know better.