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It all starts with that first date, when Lisa takes you to the new fusion bar just blocks from Torchwood Tower. You try sushi for the first time, but you gag as the raw fish slides down your throat; it feels like swallowing live worms.
Lisa giggles, already tipsy from her bottle of sake, and pats you on the hand consolingly. "You'll get used to it," she says. "We can always come back."
You meant to. You even make a reservation for your and Lisa's six-month anniversary; but then there's Canary Wharf, and Lisa's in no shape to eat out much.
Later, Lisa will tearfully explain how the Cybermen had needed to extract all "foreign bodies" in order to make her more serviceable as a fighting machine. You can't stop seeing it for days, a vision of your unborn child crawling out of Lisa's womb like a half-drowned worm amidst a heavy rain of blood and chemicals.
When you are violently ill after Tosh and Jack offer you sushi, you make no apologies. They don't ask for one.
Lisa had said the foetus was female, so you take to calling her Sally. She's your little princess; and as there never was a real body, it's easy to pretend that she isn't dead.
Lisa doesn't get a marked grave, either. Sometimes, when you're dead tired or dead drunk, you come up with tales to tell your neighbors or the clerks at Tesco. Yes, Lisa's fine, thanks for asking. She works from home now, and watches Sally while she's at it.
Not like you need those stories, since your shopping habits already paint the picture of the model single parent: brightly-colored cereals with coffee, milk among cans of beer. Jack still laughs at the growing pile of unused stuffed toys you keep in a corner of your flat.
But it almost makes sense—what with Gwen having Rhys, Tosh her computers, Owen his weekly girls and his Weevils, and Jack flirting with everyone he meets—to have someone you can call your own, even if it does mean being the father of a ghost.