no offer of a visit from her either. I had stopped expecting one. I wondered if she knew how things were between D and I? If there were any telltale signs during our phone conversations that she then likened to her own relationship with my father?

But, deep down, I knew I overthought things when it came to my mum. She was no longer capable of real emotions. I could hear it in the hollowness of her voice.

D hadn’t laid a finger on me since he found out I was pregnant again. We had moved into a four-bedroom detached house on the outskirts of a village so with that and the baby arriving, life held a novel aspect to it. I had come to recognise that boredom often brought on bouts of anger, which I would be at the receiving end of.

I still hadn’t learnt to drive. D said it was too dangerous for me to learn when I was pregnant. And once he had made it abundantly clear that my life was at home with the baby, I couldn’t imagine asking him to sit with his son whilst I booked in a few lessons. The only way for me to get anywhere was if D took me or if I called for a taxi. We were now miles away from my mum. We were miles away from anything or anywhere, and I didn’t know anyone.

D appeared to be pleased with the baby. He kept spinning him around and lifting him up too high over his head. I would touch his arm and ask him to be careful – he was still delicate, I reminded him. He would look at me with a hardened expression and continue his spinning game. I could take whatever he did to me, but not what he might do to my baby. Not again.

I couldn’t think of a suitable name for him, and D’s lists of complicated names from past uncles and second and third cousins did not suit him at all. D referred to him as the baby; to me he became Baby Boy. I would keep thinking of names. I watched the credits at the end of every film, trying to spot a name that I liked and that I thought would suit him.

He had a set of lungs on him, and I became more tense with him when D was around. I needed to walk and to be out of the house so I could calm him and that worked for all of us. D would have his headspace back and be able to ‘hold a bloody thought in his brain’ and me and Baby Boy would get some time together alone.

I had a growing sense of unease, and I was sure that was what fuelled Baby Boy’s crying; it was as though he could sense my worry. D may have kept his distance during my pregnancy, but he began changing again; the same signs were back: the look of disdain, the stressed tone, the unnecessary requests for me to perform menial tasks at times that were inconvenient to me, such as when I was feeding the baby or cooking dinner. Times that he knew I might protest or if I asked a simple question or made a suggestion. I knew better than to push things any further. I knew when to stay back and when to be quiet.

I stayed inside the house a lot. I lived my life on a knife edge, always looking and waiting and expecting. There were times when his love was completely wholesome, when he would look me in the eye, tilt my head up so I was looking at him too, and say exactly the right thing. He would tell me that I was everything that he ever needed. And that would be enough to push the thoughts away, and I would once again feel that all-consuming sense of hope, that this was it, and things could only get better.

I woke one morning to yet another searing hot day. It felt tropical as though a thunderstorm was needed to clear the sweltering heat. The atmosphere felt too close and had made D’s mood palpable.

Baby boy was loving the warmth and slept deeply all morning in only a nappy with a muslin draped over him; his tiny arms spread upwards, his little legs slightly curled inwards. He’d not been quite so content in the night. D had groaned and rolled over, muttering something about shutting him up. Eventually I had retreated with Baby Boy in my arms to the spare double bed where we both dozed until late into the morning.

It had been such a long time since he had done anything to physically hurt me that I had become lackadaisical. The housework had got on top of me; clothes hanging for days and yesterday’s dishes were still sat stacked next to the sink. The heat was pressing down on my skull, making me feel weary from only a few full hours sleep. Baby Boy was just two weeks old and I had read that it was best to get a nap in when the baby slept.

I had just laid him down for his afternoon sleep in his basinet in the spare room, hoping I could get just half an hour’s shut-eye, then I’d strap the baby to my chest and tackle the housework.

D had been out and I jumped at the sound of the front door slamming. I could smell the alcohol on his breath when he got into the house, but I knew he had driven. I didn’t dare comment.

He reached out to grab my arm to pull me to him. I knew what he wanted from me, but I was exhausted and still postpartum. I must have jerked my arm away – an instinctual action in my weary state. I had forgotten how to be alert.

I watched his face change colour. A deep red crept from his neck and flooded his cheeks as

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