She woke a couple of hours later to the sound of a baby's soft cries and she fleetingly wondered if she'd left the television on. Then she opened her eyes to find a small pair of startlingly blue eyes staring back at her. It all came back to her at once, the events of the morning and the evening before, and she reached out to touch her son's face, a gleeful smile forming on her lips.
She could not believe she had done it; she had brought him into the world on her own. She felt a burst of pride at this thought, at her own tenacity, at this little wonder that she had created.
She watched as he fussed softly, his small arms and legs flailing, the towel she'd wrapped him in falling open. She could only watch him in wonder as he moved, stroking his perfect little pink body. She kissed one of his little fisted hands, smiling in amazement when he grasped the finger she'd placed in his palm.
He was perfect. She counted ten fingers and ten toes, noted his good muscle tone. His blue eyes were clear and bright, and as she moved they looked at her, struggling to focus. She smiled at him and could not resist leaning in to drop a kiss on his tiny face.
She could not believe that he was hers, that she would get to have him and love him for the rest of her life. She felt almost like a child with a new toy, except that this toy moved and breathed, and would grow and learn and she would be able to teach him things. All the doubts she had had about her own ability as a mother fell away as she picked him up, his body firm and warm in her arms. She folded the towel around him again and placed him in her lap, watching in wonder as he took his second meal, his little mouth latching on strongly.
When he was done she simply held him, watching as his eyes looked around almost curiously, his tiny chest rising and falling. He looked at her face, and her heart swelled when he seemed almost to recognise her, his tiny brow screwing up in concentration as he stared at her intently.
She could have spent the day this way, just looking at him, watching as he moved and breathed, but as the afternoon stretched on she decided she'd best be getting up and about.
She first dressed herself in a cotton pyjama top, then lifted her son up, groaning as her aching body protested. Every muscle from her knees to her shoulders was tender and sore from her earlier exertion, and with some difficulty she carried him to the wardrobe and pulled an impossibly tiny nappy from the package, placing him back down on the bed to fasten it on him. She took care to avoid the stump of cord, which had darkened considerably in the hours since his birth, the loop of string still in place.
She cleaned the end of it delicately with some rubbing alcohol and a swab before dressing him in a blue and white striped cotton sleepsuit. He wasn't particularly fond of this new sensation of cloth on skin, fussing a bit as she dressed him, moving against the constraining clothing almost stubbornly.
When he was dressed in his first outfit, she looked down at his little body, his arms and legs still curled up in front of him as they had been in the womb. He looked so sweet that tears sprung to her eyes involuntarily. She wiped them away, laughing as she lifted him up into her arms, kissing his soft head.
She walked over to the window to look out at the city, bathed in afternoon sun. It was nearing three o'clock now, the first day of her son's life moving along quickly, and she smiled at the few people milling about on this sunny Tuesday.
She looked down at them, wanting to show her new treasure to them, to anyone. It was then that a thought entered and she had to take a deep breath to hold it at bay. She lifted her son from her shoulder and cradled him in her arms, smiling as his crystal blue eyes looked up at her again. She tried very hard to focus on him, and not the absence of the one person she suddenly so desperately wanted to present him to.
She stood there for some time, holding him, letting his tiny breaths and movements calm her. And she soon found that desperation dwindling, slipping away, and she began to think rationally again.
First, she had to dispose of the placenta, which she found still sitting in its bowl, the blood inside it beginning to clot and darken, and then drain the now-cold bathwater, still tinged pinkish-brown.
She then made herself some tea and a sandwich, needing to refuel her body. All this she did with one arm while she held her son with the other, and she was surprised to find it wasn't particularly difficult.
She did enjoy the feeling of lightness that had been brought back to her, that ability to walk and move without hindrance from the many pounds of baby and tissue that had been inside her. It was odd to be back to normal again, to be just a sole person, no longer a vessel for her gestating child.
When she had finished eating and had tidied the place to her satisfaction, the babe in her arms began yawning, his eyes starting to droop, and she took him to the bedroom, placing him in the little Moses basket cot she'd purchased for him. He seemed to approve of it, falling asleep soon after she pulled the soft blanket over him.
As she watched him sleep she thought of the way her father had done the same to her, when she was a child. He had missed her mother terribly, as she had for a few desperately sad years, but unlike her he had never truly gotten over it. He would sit next to her bed some nights, silent as she slept, and from time to time she would wake and find him there. He would comfort her, kiss her head and pull the covers around her, and she would drift off again.
And at once she felt such a longing for that man that tears burned at the corners of her eyes. She wished so fervently that he was still alive, that she could take her son to him and show him, that she could bask in the pride of making him a grandfather, that he could help her to forget the absence of the man who'd given her this gift.
And then an idea hit her, as she sat beside her sleeping son in the waning afternoon light, the sun threatening to set on this auspicious day. Henry Lynd had been her hero and her friend, and she had loved her father so dearly. Even when he sank into drink and she had to care for him like he had once cared for her she had been his fierce defender, had been so resolutely certain that he would rise up again.
She knew if not for him she would have never been educated, would have never risen as far in her career as she had, and she would have consequently never met James Bond and bore his son. As soon as the decision was made a smile touched her lips. She softly touched her son's tiny button nose, as if bestowing the label upon him.
Her father had given everything for her, so she would give her son his name. He would be Henry James Lynd no matter what her surname was now, legally, and she would raise him to make her father proud.