P.O.V

I stare at the cockroach in my water closet. It's tendrils remind me of many of It's colleagues last summer, rummaging through my wife's finest delicacies as if they paid rent. I killed them all. Fast. But this one will be different.

This one has hope. It swims out, trying to dry off when a stream of yellow liquid rains. My piss sends it right back to survival mode, slipping. Slipping. Falling.  Drowning. It flails on the surface at first, but nothing prepares it for a tornado.

One flush sucks it away. I grin.

It was here before I came after all. It got itself into trouble, and - what, I should be sympathetic?

Pathetic.

This word also goes for many of my patients and their nonsense of an issue - babies.

But, when did babies become the bane of my existence? And why do I have to rely on my patients' stupidity to eat a meal?

Those ungrateful, lazy boys and girls are eager to drive into death's horizon. Like the cockroach, they made the mistake of doing what they shouldn't.

When I was their age, I hadn't even seen breasts. Not on the television. Not in a magazine. I wouldn't read that filth. Yet here I am, with a pair to touch every night. My wife has gone to work. She doesn't know she is the first woman I have been with. Not that I saved myself for her. Not that I listened to the nuns back in boarding school.

I just found it boring. And now I am even more bored with the world. Bored that I have to sit through sessions upon sessions of girls stammering to say, "I need an abortion, Sir."

Be confident if you are going to end the little shit. He must be a little shit if the bigger shit who caused it doesn't even come with you? Or does he not know? Whatever. You are still confident enough to walk past the crowd of weirdos outside my hospital, so speak up!

Speaking of the hospital, it's not necessarily mine. Speaking of the breasts, there are not mine either. My wife has made it abundantly clear that she can woo any man and leave me, just like the hospital has made it clear my apathy is not one-of-a-kind.

If that is why they hired me, now there are more apathetic replacements. I am so replaceable to everyone.

Except my daughter. So, sometimes - very rarely, when I get girls coming in, I do sympathise. I am nice. I tell them I am a gynaecologist at another hospital - the one without the judgmental crowds. My remuneration is worse there, but I am nicer there. The girls don't have to pay there.

I am free. They are free.

There's the other side of the coin - those with this issue:

No babies.

And my goodness, can some of these women be any less insufferable? I'm talking downright expectations of signs and wonder. I only pity them because it's their husbands' doings; attimes them, getting infections from their spouses' flings or 'barrenness' that turns out to be from the guys.

However, the latter revelation is sometimes accepted with a look demanding me to ... be their sperm donor. Ridiculous, right?

I know my genes won't be bad. I am no alpha or  whatever they call very built lads, but I do have distractingly electric blue eyes, a charming smile, a tall frame, and a slim version of a six-pack.

However, this is no caveat for such a request. I always laugh it off and hope they get out of my office fast. I won't cheat on my wife for anything, much less a patient.

"Not even if I pay you?" One persistent patient inquires.

I shake my head and chuckle, hoping she'll take this lifeline away from embarrassment.

She doesn't. She has a peacockish look to her, whether it's from her gaudy jumper, her small face or long nose. She is forty-five and sick. Alma is her name.

Mrs. Alma Wood.

"I need a child." She sighs. "Help me."

"Well -"

"And forget about morals -"

"I can't -"

"A hundred million."

"No, thank you."

"Two hundred."

"Please, stop this."

"I know I am no beauty, but -"

"Your uterus is rotten!" I blurt. "There."
That's when her facial expression morphs into something uncanny. She smirks.

"Are you always this horrible, Sir?"

"No. Not when I'm not being harassed." I smirk back. "So, if you can please leave -"

"My friend recommended you. Said you were a miracle worker."

"That's kind of her, but I'm not."

"Then how did you help her be with child?"

"If you take your medication as prescribed." My frown returns. "Please tell her to stop creating the wrong impression."

"She's not wrong. You're just playing hard to get. Three hundred -"

"Out of my office."

At least she obliges this time. I exhale, slapping my forehead. I shouldn't have entertained her that long.

Her kind have returned before.

*

*

It's clear can be both joyous and not. What about what's only joyous?

Enter my daughter. My world. Diana is five and adventurous. She has a bit of my troublesome side, along with a piercing pair of blue eyes to convince anyone that she's not troublesome.

She's my carbon copy; my wife, who likes to point that out at any hint of me suspecting infedility, also thinks her bad traits are especially from me. Diana's best trait is her intellect - from my wife, according to my wife.

I don't mind her taking the credit. I wouldn't even mind if Diana wasn't learning too fast for her age. I'd love her either way.

I watch her play in the garden, after which we visit bookstores every day. We've started picking books in different languages because of their covers. Diana likes pretty things. Not all that glitters is gold, so she picks a pile, and I judge them with funny expressions.

"No, Dad, this one!" She shoves a book in my face. The cover is just leaves in shades of orange. I disqualify it.

"Pick book your age, Diana."

"But it's pretty!"

"How about - this book on a psychological look into -"

"Dad. My age?"

"This is for me, weirdo." I roll my eyes and point to our cart. "You see how I'm arranging the books. You need the right proportion of knowledge in every sphere possible because in this world, ignorance is dangerous. And life is about learning. You never stop, so it's best to learn how to do it and love it."

"T. R.A.I.N.I.N.G. Training. right?" My daughter squints at her spelling prowess. I nod, and she turns around, picking up a Chinese book.

"Neither of us understand that, miss," I say. She pouts, and I pinch my nose.

"Ok. Ok. But first spell, proportion."

"P. R..." She bites her nail.

"Ew. Germs."

"Ew. Germs!" She spits out, dropping her hand. I squint at her.

"Do you want a hint, baby?"

"No."

"Ok. I'll wait."

Diana frowns. I irritate her further by leaning on a shelf, checking my watch.

"... P.R.O.P...ortion... O...R.T.I.O.N."

I clap. She twirls around. I stop when someone mutters,'shhh!'.

"Dad, you are a nerd."

"Not really."

"Very modest. Very demure." She giggles at the end in a way that tells me, she learnt it from the internet. Concerned? Yes, I am, a little. I hardly use my phone for anything besides work, but my wife...well, she posts with Diana sometimes.

I can't stop her from 'elevating' their girl time, unfortunately.

"Spell demure."

"D. E. M. E -"

"D. E. M. U. R. E. Darling."

"Ok... Dad?"

"Yes?"

"You are. Not very demure."

*

I want to be closer to my daughter. Not as an obligation. Not as a fatherly role. As a human. I wonder how she'll be grown up. I wonder what she will spend her time on most, what food she'll grow weary of, whether she thinks I'm around too much or too little...

Sometimes, I fear that I'm being too nosy and clingy with her. I'm the paranoid parent always entering slides if my daughter is out of sight for even a second. Then, when at work, I feel like the absent one.

It has gotten to a point that I am considering swapping duties with my wife.

"You want to pick her up?" My wife, Miriam, grimaces. "And cook dinner?"

"I don't mind. Do you?"

"Well. It's not like I cook dinner every day." My wife is a midwife, so she's been passing such duties to her friends.

"I'll pick her up, starting tomorrow!"

"Okay? Your loss." She walks away, nonchalant.

*

Today, I pick her up. Her teacher smiles at me, and all seems well. I'm not even suspicious when he hands me a note. I will read it later. Today is daddy-daughter day.

"Why only today?"

"You are right!" I beam at Diana. "Every day is our day!"

"I want ice cream! I. C. E!"

"Oh, ok. There's ice in the fridge, so lets go home -"

"Nooo! I'm not finished!"

"Finish."

"C. R. E. A. M."

"See? That was easy." I carry her with one hand. Playing with my hair, she picks an amusement park over a cinema. I agree. Her dark curls bounce on my shoulder as we make it to the amusement park.