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I give her a curt nod. I know I should be offering my hand for her to shake, or giving her fake kisses on the cheek, pretending this is a family catch-up and we’re all comfortable. I don’t do anything, though, because my gaze is suddenly caught on Delilah.

She rises from the sofa where she was sitting, looking both pale and red-cheeked at the same time. The man who isn’t Felix offers his hand to help her up. I watch her movements with a sickening shock poisoning me. I recall her email.

For various reasons, none of us can donate.

I never fucking asked Delilah why she couldn’t donate her bone marrow. I just assumed that she wasn’t a strong enough match and she was throwing Maddie’s lifeline towards me, hoping I was a better genetic match to help our daughter.

I never considered that the reason Delilah wasn’t able to donate was because she’s fucking pregnant.

Delilah doesn’t look at me properly, but all I can do is keep returning my gaze to her swollen stomach. How far along is she? Four months? Five? It’s enough that she’s showing, but clearly not possible that this baby is going to arrive in time for her to meet Maddie’s needs.

“Well,” I spit. All four sets of eyes look at me. “At least I know this one isn’t mine.”

Verity gives a shocked gasp. Felix’s fists clench, and I can’t decide if I imagine the sound of his knuckles cracking. The other guy, the one I don’t know but who seems very attuned to Delilah’s every move, glares at me like I’ve just told people I skin puppies alive and eat them for my Sunday lunch. Yet it’s Delilah’s whimpering cry that I hear and focus on.

She leans down and picks something up from the sofa, then slams it into my chest. She stares at me with icy blue eyes that brim with tears. I might have hurt her with my comment, and she might want to break down crying, but she glares at me like she can burn me with her eyes.

“Fuck you, Joseph,” she snarls. She pushes the item further into my chest, forcing me to grab it, then stalks out of the kitchen before I have a chance to do anything.

Though I’m not sure what I want to do. Apologise? Pull her back and ask if she blames me for how I feel? Tell her to go fuck herself, that she deserves it? Ask her why both her whimpering cry and her fury make me feel unsettled in my stomach?

The other guy follows her. Somehow, I knew he would. Felix glares at me.

“If you even think about following her, I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself.” He stands at his full height, shoulders squared and his lip curled.

“No, you won’t,” I scoff. “As much as it pains you, Maddie might need me.”

“The second the doctors tell us you’re not needed, or you donate what she needs if you are, all gloves are off. I won’t hold back. If you even look at Delilah the wrong way, you’ll regret it,” Felix declares.

He doesn’t say another word to me, just stalks after Delilah and the other man like he’s on a mission.

Verity clears her throat. “So, that went well.”

I turn to look at her. She runs a hand through her hair, sighing loudly.

“I’ll do better,” I mutter. The shame of my reaction to Delilah being pregnant washes through my entire body, making me feel sick. I want to blame the jetlag, try to find an excuse for my behaviour and my shitty comments, but I know there isn’t one, other than that Delilah gets under my goddamn skin.

“It’s a difficult situation,” Verity says, sounding sympathetic.

“For you too,” I acknowledge.

For the second time this morning, I watch a woman’s eyes brim with tears. She wipes them away quickly with the grace I expect to see from a person who presents themselves as being refined and in control at all times.

“I am not Madeline’s favourite person right now,” she admits.

“I’m sure you rank higher than I do. She probably thinks I’m the dick who ran out on his responsibilities and didn’t care about her.”

Verity sinks onto the sofa, and she gestures for me to sit next to her. She gives me a small, sympathetic smile.

“I understand that this is a difficult situation for all concerned. There are a lot of high-running emotions right now. I think things might go a bit easier if we can refrain from emotional or childish outbursts,” she chides.

I don’t know this woman at all, so a lecture about how I should handle my emotions and my outbursts feels uncomfortable and unnecessary. I’m sure it’s unfair to suggest I’m acting like a child, so maybe I’m not the only one who apparently has emotional outbursts.

“I apologise.”

“Delilah knows why you think what she did was unforgivable.” Verity stares at me.

“What bit, exactly? Not telling me when she was pregnant? Not telling me immediately when she saw me again?” I ask. I don’t want to ask my other question: Threatening to twist the history of our relationship, just to force my silence by fear?