Magazine

There's a pervasive, highly destructive lie floating around the maternity wards and NCT classes of Britain, and it goes something like this: don't worry if you haven't picked a name yet, because the second they hand him to you, you'll...

Dear Past Tom (specifically, the deeply naive version of me from roughly six months ago who confidently volunteered to help my sister-in-law pick out an Italian moniker for her upcoming arrival), You're currently hunched over a lukewarm flat white in...

I was thirty-two weeks pregnant, sitting at the kitchen island at three in the morning, aggressively pointing out cells in a Google Sheet. My husband was asleep. The spreadsheet was simply titled The Child. Row forty-seven was the name Emerson....