‘Whatever. I’ve got an OBGYN now. I saw her today and she’s really good. We’ll do all the rest by the rules.’

‘According to best practice? The second ultrasound is due at eighteen to twenty-two weeks. I recommend twenty-two, since the first one was late.’

‘I’ll book it in at twenty-two weeks, no days, and zero hours. It’s called a sonogram here, by the way. But right now I just want to get this analysis done before I go to bed. And I want a glass of wine. Just one.’

‘Alcohol is banned. You’re still in the first trimester.’

‘If you don’t pour me a glass of wine, I’m going to have a cigarette.’

Short of physical restraint or violence, there was nothing I could do to stop Rosie drinking. I brought a glass of white wine to her study and sat in one of the spare chairs.

‘Not having one yourself?’ she said.

‘No.’

Rosie took a sip. ‘Don, have you watered this down?’

‘It’s a low-alcohol wine.’

‘It certainly is now.’

I watched as she took a second sip, imagining the alcohol crossing the placental wall, damaging brain cells, reducing our unborn child from a future Einstein to a physicist who would fall just short of taking science to a new level. A child who would never have the experience described by Richard Feynman of knowing something about the universe that no one ever had before. Or, given the medical heritage on Rosie’s side, perhaps he or she would stand on the brink of a cure for cancer. But a few brain cells, destroyed by a mother driven to irrationality by pregnancy-induced hormones…

Rosie was looking at me.

‘You’ve made your point. Go and squeeze me an orange before I change my mind. And then you can show me how to do this fucking analysis.’

Gene was in my office at the university when Inge brought in a small FedEx package.

‘This was at reception for Don. From Australia,’ she said.

While Gene and Inge made lunch plans, I deciphered the sender’s details, written in untidy script: Phil Jarman, retired Australian Rules footballer, current proprietor of a gymnasium, and Rosie’s father. Why had he sent a package to Columbia?

‘I presume it’s for Rosie,’ I said to Gene when Inge had gone.

‘Is it addressed to Rosie?’ said Gene.

‘No, it’s addressed to me.’

‘Then open it.’

It was a tiny box, containing a diamond ring. The diamond was quite small, smaller than the one on the engagement ring I had given Rosie.

‘You expecting this?’ said Gene.

‘No.’

‘Then there’ll be a letter.’

Gene was correct. There was a folded piece of paper in the package:

Dear Don
I’ve enclosed a ring. It was Rosie’s mother’s and she would have wanted her to have it.

It’s traditional to give an eternity ring on your first wedding anniversary, and I’d be honoured if you’d accept it as a gift from me and Rosie’s mother to give to her.

Rosie’s not the easiest person in the world, and I’ve always been concerned that the man she married might not be up to the job. You seem to be doing all right so far from what she tells me. Tell her I miss her and don’t ever take what you have for granted.

Phil (your father-in-law)

PS I’ve got that aikido move of yours worked out. If you screw up, I will personally come to New York and beat the living shit out of you.

I gave the letter to Gene. He read it, then folded it up again.

‘Just give me a minute,’ he said. I detected emotion.

‘It seems Phil is unimpressed with me,’ I said.

Gene stood up and paced around the room. It is a habit we share when thinking about difficult problems. My father would quote Thoreau—‘Henry David Thoreau, American philosopher, Don,’ he would say as I walked around our living room working on a mathematics or chess problem—‘Never trust any thought arrived at sitting down.’

Gene closed the door.

‘Don, I want you to do an exercise for me. I want you to imagine that your baby is born, and it’s a girl, and she grows up to be ten years old. And one day Rosie crashes your car and you’re in the passenger seat because you’ve been drinking. And—you know how the story goes, and I know because you told me—but the evolutionary imperative cuts in and you save your daughter instead of Rosie. And you’re left with just the two of you.’

Gene had to stop due to emotion. I helped him out.

‘I’m familiar with the story, obviously.’ It was the story of Phil, Rosie’s mother and Rosie, with a substitution of names.

‘No, you’re not. You’ve only heard it as something that happened to someone else. The same as if you read it in the paper about a family in Kansas. I want you to imagine yourself in it. Be Phil. And then imagine your daughter marrying some guy who broke your nose and isn’t exactly average and going away to New York and getting pregnant. Then imagine yourself writing that letter.’

‘Too much imagining. Too many overlaps. Rosie is in both stories in different roles.’

Gene looked at me with an expression I had never seen him use. This was possibly because he had never been angry with me before.

‘Too much imagining? How long did it take you to get a black belt? How long to learn to bone a fucking quail? I am telling you, Don, that you will sit down and work this through no matter how long it takes until you are Phil fucking Jarman, walking around that car with a smashed pelvis to get his kid out, and then you will write that letter yourself, and then try to come to me and say, “Phil is unimpressed with me”.’