The Noise of the World by Adriana Spadoni

In July the baby was born. Anne was very ill and Hilda fluttered about looking reproachfully at Roger. But, with the least impatience of Roger toward her, she propitiated him with assurances that many women were worse, that Anne would not die or be a wreck for life; and when, at the end of two weeks, Anne took a decided turn for the better and the doctors let him go in for a few moments to see her, Hilda acted as if she had personally managed this for his peace of mind.

Anne was so small and white, so exhausted and utterly content, and his son was such a mite of a thing; although the nurse assured him that little Roger was an "exceptional" fine and healthy boy, Roger felt that any life encased in such a tiny and strengthless form must be precarious. They were so small and helpless, dependent so completely on him. It frightened Roger. Now that his son was there before him, Roger was humble. His own part in this creation no longer seemed a thing of choice. He had been used by the force of Life, which refused to stop. It would go on and on and on, through little Roger and little Roger's sons; on, in its majestic stride indifferent to the means it used, to him as an individual, on to the fulfillment of its own purpose.