Cries rang out of the nursery after midnight on the first of May, and Bo Magnussen burst from deep sleep to perform his duty. The house was dark, cold, and quiet as he trudged across the hall to scoop up his baby girl. After changing a wet diaper—one oozing with the runs—he went downstairs, still cradling the babe, to handcraft a bottle of formula. A shaft of white moonlight shone through the window, broadcast on the baby’s plump legs. He lifted her delicately toward his lips. Her smell was like a citrus-scented baby wipe, her cheek soft and smooth as he planted a kiss. It was delightful to have such moments of intimacy; it made sleeplessness tolerable, because true love had sprouted in his heart.
But in his mind something was amiss.Read More