The night before It happened, we were having dinner and discussing living arrangements whilst our mother was away. As my brother and I were older than we had been before, we decided we would prefer to stay at home and look after ourselves.
It was all very secretive. My mother and stepfather weren’t to mention the name of their operation to a single member of the family, let alone our closer friends. This was a method they maintained so that there was no ripple of shock within their relatives; no mutterings, no rumours. I tried to pry into my mother’s secret many times over the duration’s growth… when she was in a good mood (which, unfortunately, wasn’t often, given the drugs she was taking), or perhaps landing the question on her randomly. I didn’t expect her to give me an answer, but I tried and tried as long as I found it entertaining- and that it was. I found it better to take things in a light-hearted manner rather than worrying. Truth is, I was a nervous wreck beneath the surface. I dreaded the end of it all, however it was to come about. I wasn’t accepting of the reality, as none of it had properly registered.

It was frustrating to me that I couldn’t be more positive. The procedure had worked before: resulting in such happiness… but that was only once. There were other, extremely expensive occasions where the plan had failed. Or perhaps been started; but died soon, to the sound of champagne gurgling down drains. At one point, my mother had a rather large deal to make with; but she lost it all. “It” was everything to us- well, at least It did to my stepfather and mother, anyway. I didn’t allow myself to attach to It, in case history repeated itself. Even the last time, where the outcome was the best that they could have wished for, I had still refused to relate myself and (seemingly purposefully) smashed the joy for them. Somewhat rejected from the procedure’s bittersweet ways, I questioned my own actions and decided to consider other people’s part in the plan.
But now I have grown, and find it easier to accept. It seems so long ago. Lucky, then, that I uncovered my methods of adaptation just before It happened.  

After school the following day I returned home to find my older brother watching television. He is always watching television when he comes back from college: he watches children’s programmes, and then the news two hours later.
   I stood in the lounge doorway to greet him, but as I spoke there was the strangest tingle in my neck. A feeling that one would usually feel and blame on “psychic powers” or something bizarre, as I often have, much to the awe of class mates in my earlier years at school, to which they would chorus: “What am I thinking about right now?”
  To this I would reply: “It doesn’t work like that…”, which is the truth. The hairs on the back of my neck will stand, my heart will skip a beat and my brain will print up a bright poster, screaming, ‘SOMETHING ISN’T RIGHT’ in bold lettering. I cannot predict the future from a distance; but instead only a nanosecond before it occurs.
My older brother waved back to me hastily, and then dragged himself away from the television screen to actually look me in the eyes.
He said, in a rather blunt fashion, “Oh, by the way, did you know mum went into labour five minutes after you left this morning, and she’s having the baby?”
Funny. Only the night before had we been deciding where to go. We were only prepared for the baby to come within the next two weeks. It was as if he was reminding me to take our dog for a walk. I paused, clutching my school bag.
  “Really?” I managed to gasp.
“Yeah. Her waters broke all over the carpet.”
This reminded me that everything was happening around me; as mum has always hated carpets, and despised having one fitted in her bedroom. In the majority of rooms at our previous houses we had walked upon bare floorboards. With a sigh of relief I descended into my own room and went about the evening as I usually would. Later on that day our grandparents visited so that they could look after us, and they bought us a take-away meal for dinner (contrary to our wishes, as I’m sure my brother and I could well have been happy with preparing ourselves supper out of the little cooking skills we have).  

When our mum ever becomes pregnant, she really does become pregnant. She balloons to sizes dozens of weeks in advance to the average. If someone speaks to her in the street, they will say, regarding her stomach, “Coming soon, is it?”… to which my mother shall rightfully reply, “Yes, about six months or so.”
  It’s difficult to manoeuvre around our small kitchen when she’s preparing meals, and more importantly to dodge her terrifying mood swings. At her worst points, she will hurl knives at the washing-machine- but that is fortunately rare. We blame it on the hormone drugs she has to take for the fertility treatment, however with the idea in my mind reminding me it was all artificial, it was hard to really want the new baby after all. The naïve, attention-seeking little girl inside of me was questioning if that was the way my mother was going to be from then onwards; but also knowing that if so, that would be the fault of my half-sister to be.
  
  A little while after I was home from school, my uncle called. He has the kind of expectant, nervous but forever-wanting-to-please voice that one cannot help but like.
“Hello?”
“All right there, it’s Carl.”
“Oh, hello! How are you?”
“Good thanks, good. Is your mum there, please?”
I find there is slight hilarity in the obliviousness of certain people. “I’m afraid not… she’s in the hospital at the moment. She’s gone into labour.”
Stunned silence. Then came the sound of his familiar cackle.
“Oh my God!” he exclaimed.
I laughed. “I know! Apparently her waters broke almost as soon as I left for school.”
Unstoppable laughing. “Good grief!”
“Yes, all over her carpet!”
“She’s never really liked carpet, has she?”


  I slept well as per usual that night, except for waking up at around four in the morning to use the bathroom. In my dreams there had been the sensation that the house was literally rattling from the foundations; also I thought I had heard an unusual buzzing noise.
My bedroom is in the basement of our house, therefore it’s always the darkest and the coldest at night, giving in to my fears of what may be lurking in the shadows. If there is ever an emergency bathroom trip or the urgent need for a snack during the night time, I must first dodge over my littered (I blame this on my artistic and creative nature) floor, hop over the cobblestones (again, no carpet) in the basement corridor and jump up the stairs two at a time. Our house has six floors, and so many flights of steps. As I began clumsily ascending the second set of stairs, I crashed into somebody. It was my stepfather, whom I hadn’t seen for the entire day as he had been staying with my mother.
“Evening,” I murmured, still fumbling my way up the banister.
“Hello.”
I paused, sensing he was staring after me. I looked back at him.
“Born just now,” he began. Actually, he didn’t begin… he gushed. This was the sort of blatant joy I had only experienced him expressing when my half-brother had been conceived. “Baby girl. Lovely. Really healthy. Just…” My stepfather gazed around at the walls, shaking his head, then back at me. “Gorgeous.”
In my sleepy state I was slow on the up-take, so it hadn’t occurred to me to prepare my congratulations. I nodded slowly. “Ah, that’s so cool. Well done,” I eventually croaked.
The second stunned silence I witnessed within two days. My tired brain grabbed out for things to say.
Which is when it came to me. A sudden revelation! I was then able to find out what the secret was that my parents had been hiding from me for so long.  
“What’s It’s name?”
“Marnie,” my stepfather replied, beaming like it wasn’t night time outside at all. “Marnie-June.”