Simon Page divided. Perhaps it was multiplication, he thought, as he stared between the pink flowers at it. He had made the calculations. Rechecked them. He was statistically the right age, she took proper precautions, it seemed to have turned out correct.

One can never be certain, however. Amongst the expanse of cell reproduction at high rates, errors seemed likely--extremely likely--so likely that it was against the odds that everything would be all right. Her cells were made from the same material as his, yet different. His wife's food, her cravings, her hormones, her everything were the raw materials for it. True, he supplied half of the building plan, but it stopped there. Percentage-wise it was less than half him, and he always rounded down.

Part of Simon still recounted, wistfully against his will, the glasses of wine he and his wife shared. The imprinted kiss his lips left on the glass, where she purposefully drank as well. He wondered if that small gift had traveled through his wife and rested on its cheek.

He had done it. She had done it. The three will add to one whole family. Simon straightened the blanket around it without touching it, and left.