young doctor； himself a patient； in a bare room； nearing the end of a losing battle against leukaemia。
Next to him； his wife： younger still； looking like a school…girl； except for the fact that she is nine months pregnant。 They are waiting； as they have been waiting these last seven months； for life； for death。 Which will arrive first？ Will he ever see this child； their third？
The following day； she doesn’t arrive as usual。 Instead there is a telephone call from his colleague in the maternity unit。 “Congr…atulations！ You have a daughter。”
Nobody knew where he found the strength to get up from his death…bed。 He surprised them all as he entered the room； where his wife was nursing the new…born。
He took the baby in his arms； and for a short while they were together； the three of them； united by a sheer； ephemeral joy。
“Will you call her Ann？” he said； handing her back。 “Ann Margareta Maria。” He knew he would never see his daughter again。 This was the moment he’d been holding on for。
The baptism took place the day after his funeral。 They gave her the names he had requested。
Such was my entry to life； the heritage I carry。 He was my father。 And I was his last…born child。
I found my neighbour in tears by her cattle…shed。 She looked tired and dishevelled； her clothes were stained with mud and blood。
“We lost the calf；” she wept in answer to my question。 “A fine bull calf。 Everything was perfect。 The little hooves； tail； ears； teeth and all。”
Are calves born with teeth？ I asked myself but I didn’t say so。 I sympathised with her sadness； having once shed a few tears myself over a Charolais calf still…born for no better reason than the vet being out of reach。 I remember the sight of the strong muscular body in
